


Waking Up

by LiraelClayr007



Series: You Send Me Flying [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bucky's Low Self-Esteem, Fluff, Flying, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wing Kink, Wingfic, clint's low self-esteem, late blooming powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Clint's having a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day. More than one, in fact. He's accustomed to being injured, but tripping over nothing and walking into doors isn't exactly normal for him. And it's unheard of for him to take extra time to aim his bow.What's going on?When he finds out he ends up with rather more than a few bumps and bruises.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: You Send Me Flying [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010751
Comments: 189
Kudos: 413
Collections: Series that I want to read once they are complete





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Arson,
> 
> One random day, on a random Question of the Day, you lamented that wingfic is rare in the winterhawk fandom. My brain immediately shouted, "I can help with that!!" So...this is for you. Thanks for the inspiration.
> 
> Lira 🏹
> 
>   
> Also...thanks to Pherryt for looking this over and giving me feedback, and for encouraging me to keep going. Couldn't do it without you!!
> 
> Author's note: I sort of guessed at the rating, based on what I've got in my outline. It may change, though I highly doubt it will go _down_. We'll see! Also I may add other tags as we go...

The third time Clint walks into a door frame instead of through the door as he’d intended, he decides to just sit down for a bit. He starts for one of the stools at the bar, but thinks better of it and slumps on the sofa instead. As off as he is lately, perching on a stool doesn’t seem like the best idea.

Clint’s used to getting hurt, but he’s not accustomed to feeling so wrong inside his own skin. He’s having a Bad Day.

A series of Bad Days, actually.

THREE DAYS EARLIER

He’s asleep, dreaming of flying a kite with his brother, when his bed starts to shake enough that it wakes him up. He cracks an eyelid and, sure enough, the yellow light on the wall is flashing. JARVIS is letting him know he’s got a phone call.

He reaches out to the bedside table, intending to grab his aids, but his hand hits the table eight inches off the mark; there’s a flash of pain in his wrist and then another across his cheek, and it takes him several not-quite-awake-yet moments to figure out that he’d missed his aids, knocked his lamp off the table with his wrist, and shattered the lamp against the wall. The pain on his cheek, still throbbing, is dripping blood--a piece of ceramic from the lamp base had bounced off the wall and sliced his cheek open. By the time he finds his aids and the phone--also knocked to the floor, but thankfully undamaged--it’s stopped ringing.

Typical.

But of course, the day unfolds in a somewhat less than typical manner. The phone rings again; it’s Steve, calling the Avengers to assemble. He pulls himself out of bed and heads to his dresser to get clean socks and underwear, and trips over nothing on the way there. When he tries to roll his way through the ensuing fall he overestimates and bangs his other--non-bleeding--cheek “Fuck! That’s gonna bruise,” he says to the empty room. He punctuates it with a groan.

On the way to the quinjet he trips over nothing again. And then again. He looks at his feet, picking up one and then the other, but they seem perfectly fine. He tests the weight of his go bag in his grip, but nothing seems wrong with it either.

He slings his quiver over his shoulder and reaches back to test that his arrows aren’t going to get stuck on the way out.

He misses.

And then the mission. What a fucking disaster.

They win almost easily. No one on the team is injured. And Clint hits every target exactly the way he should. But as he’s breathing before his first shot, as he draws back his bowstring, he realizes he needs a few seconds to find his center. A bit odd, but he’s had an odd morning. He takes a breath and then he’s fine, and the arrow goes where he tells it to go. But on the next shot he has to take another few seconds to breathe, to aim, before he fires. Extra seconds. Extra seconds he hasn’t had to take since before puberty.

Later, when they’re on the jet going back to the Tower, he silently adds up all the extra seconds. They add up quickly; he’s horrified when he thinks about all the shots he never had time to take.

Had anyone noticed?

The next morning he perches on the back of his chair at breakfast--something he’s done several times a day for years without incident--and he somehow manages to tip forward, falling off the chair and banging his elbow on the edge of the table. (The bruise that appears later is rather spectacular, color-wise.) But when he goes to the freezer to get ice for it, he opens the door too fast and it bounces off his forehead. And all this happens _after_ he dumps what is supposed to be his first swallow of coffee down the front of his shirt.

What is happening?

No one is quite sure what to say. Clint doesn’t blame them. He wouldn’t know what to say either. Nat just stands back with a thoughtful look on her face. Bruce steps forward like he wants to help but stops before he actually does anything. Steve and Tony exchange looks and it’s clear they’re having an entire conversation without actually speaking.

Bucky’s the only one who actually does anything. He sidles around Clint and gets an ice pack out of the freezer, takes in the bump already forming on Clint’s forehead, and gets a second ice pack. “Come on,” he says in a low voice. Clint follows him to the biggest of the sofas where Bucky gestures for him to lie down; when he’s comfortable Bucky puts one ice pack on his forehead and the other underneath his elbow. His head aches--probably will for awhile--but the ice is starting to numb the pain in his banged elbow.

“Looks like I’m the elephant in the room.” Clint tries to make his voice airy and amused, but the words come out almost scraped.

It’s ridiculous. Clint is almost always injured at least a little bit--he’s on a team of superheroes, enhanced humans, even an actual god, so he tends to throw himself into everything with that little extra push. Most of the time it works out. He’s highly trained and he’s been doing this for so long he’s got muscle memory on his side. But there are always those times he goes a little too hard, or he just misses, or he throws himself into something he’s got no business getting into, which means he’s fairly well-known in medical. But this--this is something altogether different.

He spends the rest of the day hiding in his room, trying to move as little as possible.

“What’s wrong with me, Nat?” She’s on the stool he’d almost gone to sit on. “This is more than just a little bit off my game. Fuck, I’m almost afraid to drink coffee. I could spill it on myself, or drop it on the floor and slip in the puddle, or trip on nothing and splash someone walking by in the eyes.”

“You’re giving up coffee?” She looks at him with one eyebrow raised.

His smile is a bit pained. “Didn’t you hear me say ‘almost’?”

She shakes her head. “That caffeine is going to end you one day.”

He brightens. “Speaking of…” He gets up and cautiously walks to the coffeemaker. “Ah,” he says, breathing deep of the coffee-scented air. After pouring himself a cup he looks at the stool next to Natasha. “If I sit there will you make sure I don’t, I don’t know, fall over backwards and break my head open?”

“Would I let anything happen to you?”

“Well, there was that one time you--”

She silences him with only a look.

He climbs onto the stool. “Yeah, alright,” he says. Nat’s always had his back. He’s not going to stop trusting her now.

They sit in the quiet; they’ve never felt the need to fill empty spaces with words. Clint’s brain is tumbling through the past three days, over and over again, trying to find the missing piece that will let him see what’s going on. But there’s nothing, just increasingly bad moments--one on top of the other. He can feel Natasha beside him. He never knows what she’s thinking, and mostly he doesn’t ask, but he’d be surprised if she isn’t thinking some of the same things he is. How can he be her partner if he can’t even reliably keep his feet under him? He can depend on her, but can she still depend on him?

There’s a scraping noise beside him and he jumps; his stool wobbles but before he can fall there are two pairs of hands on him. Nat and...his head whips around and is startled--again--to see Bucky’s face just inches from his own.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” Bucky says. He gives a jerky nod toward the empty stool next to Clint. “Stool was louder than I expected. Just want some coffee.”

Clint smiles a shaky smile; Bucky talks like he does before he has coffee. “I get that.” He nods toward the stool too, and Bucky sits. “And I wasn’t _frightened_. Just…” He sighs. “I’m a bit off my game the past few days. I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed.”

“A bit,” Bucky says blandly.

“Have you been to medical?”

He looks at Nat, eyebrows raised. She knows him, how he’s more about trying to escape from medical than visiting there voluntarily. “I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But this isn’t normal, Clint. Diving from a collapsing building, that’s normal. For you, anyway.” Clint starts to protest, but she cuts him off. “But walking into doors? Falling off a chair? That’s not you.”

“I’m fine,” he says. The response is automatic; even Bucky snorts his disbelief. “Maybe my body’s telling me I need to get some more sleep. Or,” he leans over his mug and takes a deep breath, then grins, “that I need more coffee.”

“Maybe you should give up the coffee,” Natasha says dryly.

Well that’s obviously not going to happen.

“Bucky understands the restorative properties of coffee. He’s on my side. Right, Buck?”

“You drink too much coffee, Barton,” Bucky says.

“Really, Brutus?”

“You don’t get to win the argument just because you make a Shakespeare reference,” Natasha says. But then she laughs, and her laugh is warm and real, so maybe he won after all.

He looks at Bucky, then at Nat, then back at Bucky. They’re both laughing. And then, with no warning, they’re not. He looks from one to another, back and forth again, and they’re both staring at him with wide-eyed...is that fear? Or just concern?

“Clint, what’s wrong?” He hasn’t heard that tone in Natasha’s voice since the time he’d jumped in front of a truck to save a kid.

“Barton!” And why does _Bucky_ sound like that? Bucky doesn’t worry about him. Not like that. Does he?

And when did they get so far away?

And then his brain whites out, an overwhelming flash of...something. He can’t even find a word for it.

Which doesn’t matter, actually, because that’s when the pain hits.

It feels like the bones in his back are trying to push their way out of his skin. He can feel them grating against each other, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to stand up again. He hears a tearing sound and there’s a momentary brush of cool air against the heat of his back and then the fire blazes and he’s falling. Falling.

Somehow he sees Bucky beside him and flings himself toward him, clinging, and Bucky feels solid under his grip. Steady.

“Barton. Barton. Are you...fuck, Nat, what do I do?”

“Just keep him upright. I think. I don’t know what else--”

She’s interrupted by someone screaming. It takes a long moment before he realizes the screams are coming from him. And he can’t stop.

It hurts too much. Nothing has ever…

He feels unconsciousness coming like a wave. A tsunami. He wants to throw himself toward it; he’s never welcomed the blissful numbness like this before. But Bucky is holding him, telling him to just hold on, that it will be okay. Even his voice is steady. There’s an edge of panic, but it’s so small that Clint isn’t sure if he’s just imagining it.

Clint’s probably imagining all of this. It’s not possible that any of this is happening.

And if it is--well. This is not how he’d imagined being held by Bucky for the first time.

Just before he passes out Natasha says, “Am I actually seeing--”

“Yeah.”

“But how--”

“I have no idea.”

And then he’s gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! A bonus chapter! Because the cliffhanger at the end of chapter one is maybe a bit much, so I thought I'd be nice. ;)

“Should we sedate him?”

“...don’t know what it would do to his physiology. The scans show that he’s changing and we don’t…”

Clint is almost aware of his surroundings. Almost, but not quite. He can’t seem to open his eyes. He can occasionally catch sounds around him, he must still have his aids in. He hears feet thumping on stairs, someone breathing near his ear, the beeps and clicks he associates with the medical floors.

“He’s unconscious but he’s _screaming_. You’ve got to do _something_.”

That’s Bucky, right by his ear. Is Bucky carrying him? His body feels so alien; he knows he’s in a new place and he didn’t walk there, but he can’t actually feel anyone or anything supporting his weight. The only thing he can feel with any kind of clarity is the pain in his back. It’s like he’s been run through with twin swords.

Wait, did Bucky say he’s _screaming_? He can’t hear that. He can’t feel any screams being pushed out from his lungs. He takes stock of his body, as much as he can in his mostly unconscious state. Is he even breathing? He can’t tell. This throws him into a momentary panic. His breath is a part of him; he had to learn to be aware of and control his breathing when he first started studying archery. But then he reasons that if he’s thinking he must be breathing, and then he’s listening to the voices and the thoughts trail into nothing.

“...don’t know how pain meds will affect--”

“Dammit I don’t care! You’re a doctor. Do _something_. Please.”

Does Bucky sound...afraid? His voice is coming from so far away. Far away and...cracked? Clint wishes he could make his brain cooperate. Or that he could focus on anything but the pain.

“...just a mild sedative, it shouldn’t be too much for his system.”

The drugs hit him like an ocean wave, knocking him off of his metaphorical feet.

The blackness is bliss.

Clint floats in and out of consciousness for several days. He never comes fully to the surface but sometimes he’s nearly aware of his surroundings. Of his body. The pain is less but there is definitely something on his back, something he doesn’t understand. There’s a stretch, and a weight, and...something soft? It feels almost like a blanket draped over him, but he’s never felt a blanket like this. Softer than snowflakes. Softer than the baby rabbits he remembers holding on the farm, when he’d been just a kid.

And that’s another thing. Why is he on his stomach? He’s no stranger to hospital beds, and he knows he should be on his back. All those times before, every time he’d rolled onto his side he’d been reprimanded and turned onto his back. But this bed is flat, and he almost feels tied down. Restrained. If someone’s concerned he’s going to hurt himself he gets being strapped down...but on his stomach?

But whenever he starts to think about it he drifts off again.

Sometimes when he comes close to waking he can’t hear anything. He can feel cool air on his exposed skin--his neck, his cheek, sometimes on one or both of his hands, but not a single sound. And then other times he hears people around him. Maybe someone puts his aids back in from time to time, he thinks he remembers studies that show unconscious patients--even comatose, and is that what he is?--can sometimes hear what’s going on around them. He hears Natasha giving him commentary about some trashy daytime talk show. Steve telling Nat she’d better get some sleep or he’s going to hit her over the head and carry her home himself. (As if he could. Clint can almost see her answering smirk.) A doctor explaining that he’s improving but they’re still waiting on test results. Another doctor talking about, of all things, Clint’s bones. Apparently they’re changing, gaining strength and stability but losing mass. What the fuck does that even mean?

And Bucky. There’s always Bucky.

Every time he floats to semi-awareness and he’s got his aids in he hears Bucky. Sometimes talking to him, but other times just breathing. And what does it mean that Clint can recognize Bucky by his breath alone?

Why is Bucky torturing him like this? Clint’s been dreaming about Bucky for weeks--no, _months_. Wondering what it would be like to feel those arms (both metal and flesh, and why is that so hot?) around him, those fingers in his hair, those lips…

No. It’s not the time to think about Bucky’s lips. But those lips keep talking, murmuring things like, “It’ll be okay, we’ll help you figure this out. It’s bizarre, but we’re actually kind of good with bizarre.” And Bucky sounds so sincere. Clint’s never heard him like this. He almost wishes Bucky would fall back into dry and sarcastic, because then he could stop thinking about other uses for Bucky’s lips.

Clearly he has brain damage.

He doesn’t remember hitting his head, but he doesn’t remember much. Just pain and then darkness. But the pain hadn’t been in his _head_. At least he doesn’t think it had been. Everything is fuzzy.

He drifts off again.

Natasha is talking the next time he almost wakes and she sounds like she’s been chatting at him for awhile. “Honestly, Clint, how did you manage this one? This is off the wall even for you. Just please don’t tell me you’re just trying to be like Sam. Or worse, Tony. How embarrassing. But hey, at least--” And then she’s overcome with laughter, so pure and bright Clint wishes he could figure out how to open his eyes just so he could see her face. After a time--time is completely lost on Clint right now--she pulls herself together and says, “At least you didn’t grow armor. That’s a definite plus.” She giggles again.

“Really, Romanov?” And Clint realizes Bucky is there, too, sighing at Nat even as she falls into laughter again.

“I don’t mean red metal armor,” Natasha says, pretending to be affronted. “I mean something like…” Clint can actually hear her thinking. Or he imagines he can. “Like...an armadillo!”

“Hawkeye, the amazing armadillo man,” Bucky says, and there’s the sarcasm Clint expects from him. “Yeah, that sounds _great_.” There’s a pressure on his hand, a gentle squeeze. Then a murmured, “Just ignore her. She’s got too much time on her hands.” Bucky pauses. “This is way better than armor.”

Is Bucky holding his hand?

But then Nat laughs some more, stealing his attention. Clint’s trying to figure out if she’s laughing because she knows he’s going to be okay, or if she’s trying to mask her true feelings. She’s a spy, so she’s good at trickery, and she’s an amazing actress, falling into her role with every molecule...but she doesn’t usually playact around Clint. He starts to think he may actually wake up soon. And maybe even get through whatever this is.

And then he realizes there’s no more pain. There’s an almost-ache, but it’s the good kind of ache. It’s like when he’s had a good workout, or the heat in his muscles after he’s been to the range for a few hours. Like he’s just bested Natasha in a sparring match. He wishes he could figure out how to make his muscles actually _work_ \--he’d like to smile--but whatever drugs they’re pumping into his veins still holds him in their grip. He sinks back into silent darkness.

Something is different this time. The sounds are sharper, the colors are brighter.

Wait. Colors?

“I can see,” he says. His voice is raspy, almost not even there. His throat dry with disuse. How long has he been here? Drifting. Sleeping. Listening.

He still can’t move. Not because of the drugs--he doesn’t feel floaty anymore. But he’d been right about the restraints. His arms and legs are strapped to the bed.

And he’s still on his stomach.

“Coffee.” His voice is still raspy, but he gets a little more volume. He’s almost made it above a whisper. His brain is shouting _Please give me coffee it’s been ages and the last cup I poured I didn’t even get to finish and I never let coffee go to waste_. But he’s still fairly weak, so all he manages to say out loud is, “Please. Coffee.”

“The doctors said you’d wake up today.”

Clint shifts his gaze towards the voice and sees Natasha sitting in the chair next to his bed, her feet propped up on his mattress. “Nat,” he says. She smiles.

“I can’t give you coffee, but I can offer you some delicious ice water.” She crouches by the bed and puts the end of a straw in his mouth. She’s right about the water, it’s ice cold and possibly the best thing he’s ever tasted. He can’t hold back the whine of protest when Natasha pulls the glass away. “Not too much, you’ve been eating through that iv in your arm for five days. Don’t want to shock your system.”

“Aw, water, no.”

It’s so good to hear Natasha laugh. He’s been listening to her worry for--has it really been five days?

“Five days?” he rasps. He looks at her, really looks at her, and sees that the worry is still there. They’ve been best friends for so long, he can usually read her expressions without much effort--even the blank ones. But for all he can see the worry he can’t make out what’s hiding underneath.

“Five days,” she repeats. She lets out a breath, and he can actually see her work at pulling herself together. She leans back in her chair, putting her feet on his bed again, and picks up a book and a pen from a nearby table. “Can you help me out with this crossword puzzle?” Her voice is light, but it comes across a bit too bright and cheerful. Forced. “Eleven letters. Clue is ‘Avenger who suddenly has a superpower’.”

Goosebumps rise up on Clint’s arms. “What are you--Nat, what happened to me?”

She doesn’t say anything, but there’s hesitation in her eyes.

A clatter by the door makes them both jump.

“He’s awake? Clint, you’re--”

“Bucky,” Clint says. He doesn’t mean to interrupt, but Bucky’s voice floods him with a rush of ( _relief? happiness?_ ) something, and he speaks without thinking. And then Bucky’s crouched next to his bed, his face only inches away, and his breath catches in his throat. Bucky’s face is clearer than Natasha’s; he’s usually so stone faced, but now he somehow looks deeply concerned and happy all at once. And more vulnerable than Clint’s ever seen him.

“He just woke up,” Natasha says. “I was going to call, but you didn’t give me a chance.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, ignoring Nat. “You had us pretty worried. How’re ya feelin’?”

“Your Brooklyn is showing,” Clint whispers. He can’t quite smile, but he thinks his eyes probably show that he’s teasing.

Bucky’s answering smile is shaky. “It happens. Can’t take Brooklyn out of the boy.”

“I’m feeling...okay. My back hurt before, it hurt _a lot_ , but now it feels fine.” He squints a little, thinking. “No, not fine. Feels damn weird, actually. But there’s no pain.”

He examines Bucky’s face, then looks over Bucky’s shoulder at Natasha. “Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” He fights to make himself sound firm though he barely has the voice.

Natasha sighs. “We don’t really know, Clint. You probably got hit by a spell, or fell into some magical trap and didn’t realize. Although I don’t know why anyone would do… _this._ ” She waves a hand that encompasses the entirety of Clint.

Panic rises in his throat like bile; he’s glad his mind can’t grasp anything because he knows he’d never be able to speak.

“It’s going to be alright,” Bucky says, setting his warm hand on top of Clint’s. “We’ll get you through it.”

Clint’s surprised at the compassion in Bucky’s eyes. Almost as surprised as he is at the hand resting on his own. He manages to rasp out, “Did I turn purple or something?” He tries to sound amused, unconcerned, but his fear pokes through.

“No, not purple. Not...exactly.” He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, produces a small silvery mirror. He holds it in front of Clint’s face, and Clint is startled to see that he looks...normal. A little pale from five days out of the sun, and clearly worried, but not much different than usual.

Then Bucky starts to back up, giving him a wider view of himself.

At first he thinks it’s a joke. A trick mirror, or some kind of a glamour. But then he remembers the twin pains in his back, and he knows it’s no childish prank.

“I’ve got...wings.” He can’t keep the wonder out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Any idea how that happened?”

Clint barks a laugh, just this side of hysterical. “If you’re asking if I angered a witch, or cast a spell to grow wings, the answer is no.”

He can’t take his eyes off the wings gently fluttering in the mirror. “They’re kinda pretty,” he says. He’s still entirely perplexed, but he can’t help but admire the mottled feathers. They’re patterned in brown and white, with just a hint of-- “Hold on,” he says, momentarily snapping out of his panic. “Do I see _purple_?”

“I looked through some books,” Bucky says. “You look almost exactly like a red-tailed hawk, but with brushes of purple on the tips of the feathers.”

Natasha whoops with laughter, effectively breaking the tension they’ve been wading through since Clint first opened his eyes. “Hawkeye has hawk wings,” she chortles. “Gonna grow a tail next?”

Clint feels the little color he has drain from his cheeks. “I don’t actually…”

“No,” Bucky says quickly. “No sign of anything but wings.” Clint relaxes slightly.

“Well…” Natasha says, drawing out the word. Bucky turns to look at her; Clint can’t see his face but by his posture he’s giving her his murder face.

“What? He’s going to find out eventually.” To Clint she says, “JARVIS did some scans. A lot of scans, actually. You have hollow bones now. Hollow but apparently very strong. And….” She meets Bucky’s eyes, questioning, and Bucky slowly nods. “And your DNA has actually changed.” She gives him a reassuring look. “You’re still human, Clint. You’re just a little...extra.”

“We need Stevie here to tell you ‘Your body’s changing’” Bucky says in a dry voice, and Clint laughs. It’s tight and nervous, but it’s a laugh. Bucky’s face goes almost soft. “Seriously, Barton, some weird shit is going on, but we’ve got your back. All of us.”

It’s more than he wants to deal with, all these emotions that keep washing over him. So instead, after a stretching silence, he pulls a bit at his restraints. “Any chance you two could get me out of these things? I’d like to at least sit up.”

Natasha looks at him, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. “You’re not gonna bolt, are you? They’ve got a day or two of specialized physical therapy for you. It’s just to see what you can do,” she adds quickly, seeing the look of horror on his face. “You’re not actually injured at all, which is maybe a first for you.”

Clint scowls, but he knows she’s right. He laughs along with her and Bucky, then says, “Okay, okay. I won’t try to bust out of here. But you’ve got to bring me some coffee, I can’t live on just water for two more days. I don’t think I can live on just water for two more _minutes_.”

“I’m on it,” Bucky says; at the same time Nat says, “We’ve got to clear it with the doctor.” They have a silent conversation, glaring at each other, until Bucky finally relents. “Fine, we’ll wait for the doctor. I’ll go find her now.”

He slips out the door, silent as a cat, and Natasha starts undoing the buckles on Clint’s restraints. Her grip on his arm is firm; at first he doesn’t understand why she helps him sit up so slowly, but then everything swings out of focus until he finds his balance. No wonder he’d spent three days running into things and missing what he was reaching for. _Everything_ feels different. His center of gravity is in a new place. His arms feel lighter; actually, he feels lighter from his shoulders to his feet. Except for the weight tugging at his back. That’s new.

“Woah,” he says. “That’s gonna take some getting used to.” He wants to get to his feet but decides it’s better to sit and wait for the doctor. Not because he’s not sure if he can get off the bed without damaging his wings. That has nothing to do with it. He just knows it’s good to wait for clearance.

He always listens to the doctors. Well, when he agrees with them.

And then his thoughts catch up with him. His _wings_. Fuck, will he ever get used to that?

It’s not long before Bucky’s standing in front of him, handing him a cup of coffee. “I found the doctor _and_ coffee,” he says.

“It was my coffee,” grumbles a voice from the doorway.

“And _you_ can go get another one, Stark,” Bucky growls. He gives Tony his murder face.

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m not scared of you, Tin Man.”

“What about me?” asks Nat, raising an eyebrow.

Waving dismissively Tony says, “He can have the coffee.”

Natasha smirks, satisfied, and sits back in her chair.

“How are you feeling, Clint?” It’s the young doctor today, Sasha Case. Clint approves, she’s one of the good ones. No nonsense from her.

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet, Dr. Case. Have you all figured out what happened to me?”

Dr. Case doesn’t shy away from his gaze. “We don’t know exactly, but we _do_ know that it wasn’t an attack of any kind. Dr. Strange has been working with me, and Wanda’s been up here to examine you as well, and they can’t find any residual magic anywhere on, around, or inside you.” She sighs. “You know I don’t like to guess, Clint. I like facts. But the best we can tell is that your…” She pauses, searching for the word. “Your _condition_ is a result of a latent ability suddenly waking up. We think this was always inside you, just waiting to, well, sprout.” She gives a little laugh.

He’s sitting down, but Clint still reaches out to steady himself. Bucky sees his grasping hand and holds on. Clint’s brain is trying to catch up-- _the wings were just waiting? Where the fuck did they come from? How did my bones suddenly hollow out? Where did the extra go? And my DNA is changed? That can’t be normal._ He’s trying to get his thoughts under control when a little voice in his head says, _Did you notice you’re holding Bucky’s hand?_

Clint starts at this and reflexively squeezes Bucky’s hand. Bucky turns to him, an odd look on his usually stoic face. “You alright?” he asks in a low voice.

Nodding, Clint says, “Not even a little bit.”

Natasha laughs a that. “That’s you in a nutshell.”

“Thanks,” Clint says. It sounds sarcastic, but he can tell by the look in her eyes that she understood what he really meant.

Dr. Case is talking again, explaining the tests they want to run on him; not medical tests, exactly, but they want to put him through his paces, to see what he can do. “It should only take a day, I think. We’ll get you up on your feet today and tomorrow we’ll see what you can do. Hopefully by tomorrow evening you can go home. I know you’d rather sleep in your own bed.” She gives him smile at this understatement. Clint is well known for his daring escapes from medical.

“You’re not going to strap me down again, are you?” He grins, but there’s an underlying nervousness to the question.

“As long as you promise to behave,” the doctor quips. Then, more serious, “The restraints were to keep you from rolling around while you were unconscious. Your situation is unprecedented; we didn’t know if you could do damage to your wings, if you could crush them or damage flight feathers. Especially as you’re just…” She seems unsure how to continue.

Clint grins at her. “A fledgeling?”

Dr. Case chuckles lightly. “Something like that. But now that you’re more yourself again there shouldn’t be any problems. If you roll onto a wing in your sleep you’ll very likely either wake up or just shift automatically. The body is generally quite good at taking care of itself.”

Clint wants to tell her that he’s never felt more _unlike_ himself, but he just nods.

“You really don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll be okay.”

Bucky is quiet for a long moment, then he says, “I know what it’s like to wake up and not know what’s going on, to wake up breathing hard and trying to calm a racing heart. It’s easier if someone’s there. I’ll stay.”

The room is dim, almost dark. Clint is curled on his side on the hospital bed, his wings draped behind him. He can feel the tips of his feathers brushing the floor and wonders when he became so aware of his wings that he can feel all the way to the tips. Bucky’s sprawled in the visitor’s chair beside the bed, his feet propped up on the bed where Natasha’s had been earlier. He looks almost comfortable. 

Clint had sent Nat away after they’d eaten dinner, telling her she needed to sleep in a bed. Bucky had said, “I’ll keep an eye on him,” and that had apparently settled the matter. Not that anyone had asked Clint for his opinion. But now, seeing Bucky’s calm resolve, he’s starting to understand.

“You’re still having nightmares,” Clint says.

Bucky makes a noise in his throat. “You could say that.”

Clint nods. He wants to say more, to explain how he sometimes wakes up and can’t tell if Loki is in his head or if it was just a nightmare, or curled into a ball with his hands over his face, hiding from his dad. But it’s too heavy, so he just nods. Bucky understands.

“Thanks,” he says. It’s not enough, but it’s all he has.

Bucky gives a small nod. “You can sleep,” he says.

Clint squeezes his eyes shut then opens them again, willing the tension in his body away. “I’m pretty tired,” he admits. “But I’m too keyed up to sleep. My brain keeps going around and around, and then my feathers start to twitch--” He realizes what he’d just said and his eyes go wide. In a quiet voice he says, “I don’t know how to do this, Buck.”

Bucky makes a fist with his metal hand, then relaxes it. “You’ll figure it out,” he says with an almost smile. “You’re an Avenger. It’s what you guys do.”

He’s not sure what to make of that. Bucky’s an Avenger too, and not just by name. They fight side by side, all of them. Does he still not feel included?

“I’ve been a SHIELD agent longer than I’ve been an Avenger. A spy, doing secret things.” He flutters his wings, just enough to get Bucky’s attention. “I don’t think I can be very sneaky like this.”

“You can get the drop on people,” Bucky says. “Ooo, maybe you can carry messages! Clint the carrier pigeon. And think how many perches there are out there you haven’t been able to reach yet.”

Clint can’t help but laugh at this. “I’ll figure it out,” he concedes. “I’ve had weird stuff thrown at me before.” Another thought strikes him, and he looks at Bucky with an almost longing look. “Buck! Why couldn’t this have happened back when I was in the circus? I could have been amazing!”

Maybe it’s the dimly lit room, but he can’t interpret the look on Bucky’s face when he says, “Clint. You _are_ amazing.”

Bucky’s obviously just being nice, trying to make him feel better after his embarrassing admission of...being afraid? Is that what he’d said? He can’t even remember anymore, he’s pretty tired. So he just shrugs. “I guess. My aim’s pretty good.”

Bucky looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he just slumps back into his chair. “You really should get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Clint wants to argue, but the day finally catches up to him. He’s asleep before he can open his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! I'd love to hear what you think... 💙


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets a taste of how different life with wings is going to be.

For the third time in five minutes Clint sprints, leaps, and falls.

He looks at Dr. Case. “Can I please just go home? I’m obviously not going to learn to fly in a few hours. You tested my aim, you tested my reflexes. I flapped hard enough to hover so you know the wings are actually meant for flying--”

“We can infer that, but we don’t know for certain,” Dr. Case interrupts.

“Strange seems to think so,” he says, nodding at the other doctor.

The two doctors exchange a look.

Clint bristles. “Hey, what’s that about? If you’re gonna send silent messages about me at least have the decency to do it when I’m not looking.”

He can actually feel the feathers standing up, where his wings meet his back. Another weird thing to get used to, his wings telegraphing his moods. He’ll have to work on that.

Dr. Strange sighs. “Your newly hollow bones plus the lifting ability of your wings does indicate that flight is possible,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to fly.”

Turning the statement over in his mind, Clint finally just goes with, “What?”

“Just because the wings are capable of flying doesn’t mean you’ll be able to learn.”

“Oh.”

He gets it now. Learning to fly is easy for fledgling birds, who are born with centuries of knowledge built into their DNA. But he’s just a regular guy, and pushing 40 at that. Maybe he’s too old to learn this particular new trick.

“For what it’s worth, we both have confidence you will be able to learn. You seem to be quite aware of yourself, spatially; you haven’t brushed a thing with even the tip of a feather since we started testing you. You’ve grown accustomed to your new self remarkably fast, and that lends weight to the idea that the knowledge is in you--you just have to figure out how to access it.” Dr. Case smiles. Clint thinks she’s probably trying to be reassuring but it seems a bit forced. But like she’d said the day before, she doesn’t like to guess. She likes facts. And apparently today’s tests hadn’t given her enough data.

“Hopefully we don’t have to resort to throwing you out of the nest,” Strange says dryly.

Clint rolls his eyes. “How long before everyone stops with the bird imagery?”

“Oh, _ages_ ,” Natasha pipes up from where she’s leaning against the wall. 

“Great,” he grumbles. But he knows it’s fair. If Tony ever wakes up with actual iron skin, or Scott with antennae, he’d never let up with the jokes. 

“I think Tony’s planning to stock the communal fridge with worms,” Nat says helpfully.

“I’m a hawk!” he squawks. “Hawks don’t eat worms!”

She looks at him like he’d grown an extra head instead of wings. “Do you really think that matters to Tony?”

He grins. “Fair point.”

“And how are we supposed to stop with the bird jokes when you’re calling yourself a hawk?”

“We’ll help however we can,” Strange interrupts. Clint can almost see a thought bubble over his head: _Someone please save me, I’m surrounded by children._ “But I’ve seen you in combat, the way you adapt to whatever happens to be thrown at you. I agree with Dr. Case; I believe you’ll be able to find your way.”

Feeling oddly motivated by this almost pep talk, Clint says, “Thanks, doc. Doc.” He nods at each of the doctors in turn. Dr. Case smiles at him, Strange rolls his eyes. Clint hears him mutter something about docks being for boats, but he lets it go.

It takes 30 seconds on his floor to realize he’s going to have to make some changes.

The bed’s okay, he’d proved the night before that he can sleep on a bed without doing damage to himself. And there’s plenty of room to maneuver everywhere, thanks to the open floor plan and minimal furniture.

But the furniture itself is going to be a problem.

Why does he have so many _chairs_? There’s not a single stool in the place. He can straddle a backwards chair to sit at the table, but that’ll get old fast. The recliners are useless unless he wants to try to curl up sideways with his wings over one of the armrests--which he doesn’t want to do. His arms and legs are too long to fit without contorting himself into a position so uncomfortable it completely negates the point of a recliner.

And the sofa. He gets so lost staring at the sofa, wondering how he’s ever going to play Mario Kart or watch Dog Cops again, that he doesn’t hear Natasha behind him until she speaks.

“Should we get you one of those swinging perches? And a little bell to peck at when you’re bored?”

“Ha ha.”

He turns to look at her and is surprised to see that, far from the teasing her words implied, she’s looking at him with sympathy. Which might actually be worse.

“I can’t even get comfortable in my own place, Nat.” 

Instead of answering, Natasha says, “JARVIS, is Pepper in the building?”

“Miss Potts is currently on her floor, yes,” the AI answers.

Nat flashes him a small grin. “Could you ask her to come down, please? Maybe explain the situation?”

“Agent Barton needs to redecorate.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Thanks JARVIS.” She looks at Clint with a smirk. “Between Pepper and JARVIS it’ll be perfect by sometime tomorrow.”

After Pepper leaves all Clint wants to do is fall into bed. Or a cup of coffee. He’s worn out--not to mention battered--from Dr. Case putting him through his paces, and his brain is occupied with thoughts of stools and something called a chaise lounge. He has to admit, as odd a piece of furniture as a chaise lounge is, it actually seems like it might work. Could even be comfortable. He can stretch out on one side and have his wings hang over the back. Pepper had assured him that it’s exactly what he needs, and that everything would be taken care of by the next afternoon.

“I’ll contact a tailor as well,” she’d said. “You’re going to need all new shirts and jackets. Maybe a slit down the back, with some kind of fastener at the collar? Don’t worry, Clint. You can still wear the same things you always have--just slightly modified.”

He climbs up onto the back of the sofa and perches there, the tips of his wings brushing the floor behind him. “I’ve got to sleep, Tasha. This…” He makes an all-encompassing gesture, then rubs a hand across his face. “This is just a lot to take.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You really should shower first. You haven’t had anything but a sponge bath since before you sprouted feathers.”

Horrified, he stutters, “You--you didn’t--”

“I didn’t _participate_.” She gives him her most evil amused look. “I just watched.”

“Natasha!”

Unfazed, she says, “Go take a shower, Clint. I’ll stick around in case you need anything else before going to bed.” She sits sideways in one of the now obsolete recliners, legs crossed and propped on the arm of the nearby sofa. He wants to argue, to tell her to leave because he can damn well take care of himself, but in truth he’s still pretty freaked out by everything that’s happened and having Nat around is steadying.

He’s faced with a whole new problem in the shower. As in, he doesn’t fit. He’s got a great big bathtub, complete with _amazing_ jets, perfect for all the aches and pains he accumulates in his day to day life. But his shower is only slightly larger than the standard size, and even with his wings tucked in as tightly as he can manage he can barely turn around. The shower that was supposed to be comforting only manages to make him more tense.

But hey, at least he’s clean.

Tony’s gonna have a field day with this. Clint can hear just how it will go: “Haven’t you figured out yet that I always know what’s best? If you’d just let me design the bathroom my way you wouldn’t be having this problem now.”

He towels down everything he can reach and pulls on a pair of pajama pants. “Hey Nat,” he says, scrubbing at his head with the towel as he walks out of the bathroom. “Can you get some of the water off my wings? I think most of it flew off when I stretched them out--and that’s going to be a pain, I got water all over the walls--but I don’t want my bed to get soaked.”

“I got it,” says a low voice. A _male_ voice.

Bucky’s voice. Clint pulls the towel off his head and nearly runs into Bucky, who is somehow standing in his living room.

“I didn’t think you’d mind me letting him in. He got here while you were showering.”

He shoots a look at Natasha then looks back at Bucky, who shrugs. “I just wanted to check on you, and to ask how all the testing went.” With a perfectly straight face he says, “How did the testing go?”

Rolling his eyes, Clint says, “It was _boring_. Remember when you first got here and they wanted to see everything your arm could do? Think that, only with more ‘why aren’t you flying yet, you nitwit?’ And that was just Tony.”

Bucky laughs, warm and low, and Clint’s stomach flips. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion talking, but Clint wants to hear that laugh more often.

And then he remembers he’s standing there half naked, drops of water flying off his wings every time he moves, standing so close to Bucky he can feel the heat from his body.

“I...uh…” His mind is suddenly blank. And then Bucky takes the towel from his hands and motions for him to turn around. Because he can’t figure out what to say, he complies.

“Your wings are beautiful,” Bucky says in a conversational tone, gently brushing at the feathers with the towel. “Striking. Could you open them up a little more? There you go, that’s good.” Bucky’s so gentle, the towel on Clint’s feathers is soothing. He’s starting to wish for someplace to sit when Bucky says, “One of these feathers is out of place, or maybe a bit bent. Do you mind if I try to fix it? Or pull it out?”

He’s never actually had wings before--how should he know? “Uh...try to put it back in place? But if it’s bent just pull it out.” He’s got to find out sooner or later if that’ll hurt.

“Can you feel it?” Bucky hasn’t moved, and Clint can almost picture Bucky standing there, towel over his shoulder maybe, eyes fixed on Clint’s back. He suddenly wonders what it looks like where the wings join his back. Is there a patch of feathers on his back now, too?

He shakes his head, trying to snap himself into the moment. “What was that?”

Bucky’s chuckle is low and rumbling, and Clint’s stomach does a few more jumps. “I asked if you could feel the bent feather.”

Clint thinks about it. “Huh. Yeah, I can.” He flutters a bit, involuntarily. “Weird.”

And then Bucky’s fingers are in his feathers, and he’s helpless to stop the wordless, guttural moan that comes from his mouth.

It’s a jolt. He feels like he’s being touched on the inside, caressed, held. It’s a combination of comfort and arousal, completely unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

He can’t speak. He’s not even sure he can breathe. He may be suffering from oxygen deprivation.

Bucky’s hands freeze, and Clint wants to tell him to keep moving, keep preening, but his tongue won’t obey and he still hasn’t taken a breath. Or he can’t remember breathing, anyway.

“I think this may be my cue to leave.”

Clint jumps and is startled into taking a breath. The oxygen rips through him, a shocking relief to his lungs, but his brain doesn’t clear. He knows Natasha said something--he’d actually forgotten she was in the room--but the only thing he can think about is Bucky. Bucky, standing behind him.

Bucky’s hands.

“I...uh…” It flits through his mind that he’s saying that a lot lately, but he lets it pass. Natasha stops in front of him, and he can see by the smile in her eyes that his face is flushed as red as it feels. “Nat?” he says, and he pleads with his eyes, because he’s feeling out of his depth.

She kisses him on the cheek; her lips are cool on his overheated skin. “It’s okay,” she murmurs into his ear. “You deserve this.”

Before he can respond, she’s gone.

Bucky’s fingers are still deep in his feathers, still sending pings of pleasure throughout his body. “Bucky, that’s…”

“Do you want me to stop?”

The words are a slap. He snaps his head up. “No! _Christ_ , no, it’s just…” He looks for words. “It’s just a lot,” he finishes. He wants to smack himself on the forehead. So lame.

He takes a slow breath; it’s supposed to be calming but instead just makes him lightheaded. “I didn’t know having you touch my wings would be so...intimate,” he says softly.

There’s a pause in the air, although Bucky’s fingers don’t stop their preening. His hands move lightly along his wings, smoothing feathers. “I had an inkling,” Bucky says.

Having Bucky behind him is both transcendent and frustrating. Those hands; Clint can barely think with the thrumming echoing in his body from Bucky’s hands. If he’s not careful he’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor. But he can’t see Bucky’s face, can’t see into his eyes. Clint is good at reading people; reading lips is as much about facial clues and context as it is about the actual words formed. Plus, he’s a spy. Or he used to be, anyway. If these wings are a forever kind of deal, he’s going to have to give up spycraft.

Not a bad trade, really, if he gets Bucky and his magic hands in the bargain.

His thoughts are wandering. “I...uh...what?”

“I thought it might be an intimate thing. Have you ever seen birds preen each other? They gently run their beaks through another bird’s feathers, plucking out an errant feather, burying their faces under a wing. And the bird being preened just gets...glazed. It’s a look of bliss.” He takes a breath. “It’s why I asked if it was okay to touch with my hands. You didn’t really react to the towel, but I wondered…” He trails off, seemingly unsure how to finish his thought.

“I’m glad Nat didn’t do it.” He shudders at the thought. He loves Natasha, but he doesn’t _love_ her. Not like that.

Again Bucky lets the silence hold just a hair longer than Clint is used to; when he can’t look at him, when he’s got nothing to do but stand and listen, Clint is suddenly realizing that Bucky is a fairly thoughtful and contemplative guy. He doesn’t rush to fill every silence with a spill of random words, he takes the time to compose his thoughts before he speaks. It’s...refreshing. And endearing.

“I don’t think you’d have reacted the same way to Natalia.”

For a breath Clint smiles at the familiar way Bucky talks about his best friend, and then his brain rewinds and replays the entire statement. “Wait, what? Why not?”

“When the doctors were examining your wings you didn’t react at all, because it was clinical. If Natalia hugs you and brushes her fingers against your feathers, it will be familial. A pleasurable touch is something...different.”

More than anything Clint wants to turn around. He almost does it; he shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet in preparation to spin. But he holds himself back. Maybe not having to look Clint in the eyes is giving Bucky courage to speak. He’s said more in the past few minutes than in the past few months. Although that could possibly be because when they are together Clint talks enough for both of them. In spite of all the confusion swimming in him, Clint smiles.

“What is this?” He hadn’t meant to say anything out loud, doesn’t even realize he’d done it until Bucky pulls his hands away in a rush. Clint is utterly ashamed of the involuntary mewling sound that passes his lips. Bucky makes a huff of amusement.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, sweetheart,” Bucky finally says. And oh, that _sweetheart_ goes right to Clint’s core.

Clint could turn around now, could back Bucky up until he runs into a wall and then stare into his eyes to see if he can figure out what’s going on behind them. But maybe having his back to Bucky is giving _him_ courage, too.

Taking a breath, Clint says, “It’s something different, alright. The thing is...I mean, the thing is…” Why is it suddenly so difficult to talk? It’s like the signals from his brain to his mouth are being rerouted somewhere else. And Bucky’s just standing there, listening to him babble. Clint’s half waiting for him to get tired of it and walk away. The thought of that lights a fire under his ass, and he practically shouts, “Fuck, Bucky, I wanted your hands on me long before I sprouted wings.”

There’s nothing behind him but silence. Clint’s head drops, his chin resting on his chest, and when he feels heat rise on his face he wonders if Bucky’s standing there watching the back of Clint’s neck flush red with embarrassment. Probably his ears, too.

He’s had buildings collapse on him before. Why doesn’t it ever happen when he needs it?

And then Clint can’t breathe, because Bucky’s arms are hugging him from behind, ever so carefully slipped underneath his wings, a whisper against his feathers. And Bucky’s body presses up against him; the wings are between them but it doesn’t dull the sensation. If anything the wings heighten the experience; the side of Bucky’s face against his neck, his hitching breath against sensitive feathers. And Bucky’s hands...for a heartbeat Clint wishes for Bucky’s hands on his wings again, but then his hands, both metal and flesh, begin to explore Clint’s skin. They trace shapes on his stomach, up his sides, across his chest.

“Like this?” Bucky asks, his voice low and raw. “Is this what you wanted?”

He’s dreaming. He must be dreaming. Bucky is pressed up against his back, radiating supersoldier heat. _And possibly another kind of heat,_ a voice in his head adds. His already too-hot face heats up even more.

Bucky had called him _sweetheart_.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling a little too hard. Trying to wake himself up. It hurts, but it’s not convincing enough.

“This can’t be real. It’s a dream, or a hallucination. My DNA is all messed up, it’s messing with my head too.” He’s trembling; if not for Bucky holding him up he’d be a pile on the floor. But if it’s not real, then Bucky’s not actually holding him up--maybe he’s already a pile on the floor.

Or maybe he’s still in medical.

Bucky goes still; his hands stop their wandering. “I’m going to let go, Clint, but I don’t want you to fall. Can you walk with me to your bed? I think you need to rest.” His voice is even, calm, exactly what Clint would imagine in a situation like this.

His head hurts, trying to think like this. He carefully nods--doesn’t want to make it hurt any worse. “Sleep is good. Unless I’m already sleeping,” he mutters. “Probably already sleeping. Probably still in my hospital bed.”

“You’re not in medical, sweetheart. You just need some sleep. This thing you’re going through…” He makes a noise in his throat, a pained kind of sound.

“Good thing I’m dreaming or I’d wonder about that,” Clint says sleepily. “And you called me sweetheart again. I like it.”

There’s another noise from Bucky. It’s just how awake-Clint would want him to sound, frustrated and needy. There’s an ache in his chest--he wants to reassure Bucky, but he’s not real so what would it matter? He makes a frustrated noise of his own.

“Don’t--” Bucky starts, but cuts himself off. He takes a deep breath and says calmly, “Here’s your bed. Can you lay down?” His arm is still around Clint’s waist, and he’s carrying a lot of Clint’s weight; he eases Clint onto the bed then pats one of the many pillows. “Come on, doll. Just lay down. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Clint isn’t sure about that. He’s curled up on his side on his bed, and Bucky’s draping a blanket over his shoulders. How could he feel better than this? And then Bucky brushes his hair back, and the feel of fingers carding through his hair lingers even after he pulls his hand back. “I’m gonna sleep on your sofa, so just holler if you need me.” Clint wants to say that he needs Bucky _right now_ , but his eyes are already fluttering closed. Just before he falls asleep Bucky gently takes his aids out. “Thanks,” he whispers. “I know you’re just a dream, but thanks anyway.”

Maybe it’s a dream, but it’s still a shock when Bucky kisses his forehead. And then he’s gone, leaving Clint to dream on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you at the BDBD, for the sprints, for reading my snips, for the encouraging and flailing. And to pherryt for being my first reader and for agreeing that the surprise angsty turn fit just right. 💙


	4. Chapter 4

It’s quiet when Clint wakes up. He actually can’t hear anything. He puts a hand to his ear--nothing. And then he remembers: Bucky took his aids out before he fell asleep.

Bucky.

Then the whole night before comes crashing back into his memory. Bucky’s hands in his feathers, and then on his chest. Bucky’s fingers in his hair.

That ghost of a kiss on his forehead.

He sits up, shaking out his rumpled wings, and puts his aids in. Bucky had said he’d be sleeping on the sofa. He said he’d be there if Clint needed him. But that had been a dream, right?

“There’s only one way to find out,” he mutters. He sets his jaw, stands, and is through the bedroom door before he can stop himself.

The sofa is just as he’d left it. Afghan tossed haphazardly across the back, soft purple throw pillows on the end he likes to curl up in.

No Bucky.

He slumps against the door frame, trying to convince himself that he’s not disappointed. It doesn’t work.

“Of course it was a dream.” He nearly throws himself onto the sofa but at the last second he remembers his wings and does an odd sort of pirouette to keep himself from crushing them, bruising his shin in the process. He hops around on one foot for about half a minute, cursing the offending coffee table edge, then climbs up onto the sofa’s back to perch where his wings can trail onto the floor behind him. Good thing Tony had insisted on a big, heavy, steady sofa. He’s been sitting like this since he first moved in; he’s always been one to find a perch rather than sit in a regular seat if one is available.

“It was a hell of a dream.” It had felt so real, down to Bucky’s breath making his feathers stand on end. But Bucky doesn’t think of him that way. He’s a walking disaster. He looks over his shoulder at the hawk-like wings folded against his back. Is a flying disaster that much of a step up?

What he really needs is coffee. For half a second he considers getting dressed, but then he realizes he can’t actually put on a shirt, and that he’d only be trading his comfy flannel pajama pants for jeans. What’s the point of that? He’s had coffee in his pajamas before.

Slipping his feet into a pair of moccasin style slippers--Nat is sometimes surprisingly motherly, and she always scolds him if he walks around the Tower barefoot--he opens the door to go to the common floor.

Bucky’s standing in the hallway, a surprised look on his face. With his metal hand he’s holding a tray heaped with breakfast foods and two very large cups of coffee; his other hand is reaching for the doorknob.

“Bucky.” It’s all Clint’s stressed out brain can come up with.

“I thought you could use breakfast.” He glances at the tray, then looks back at Clint. “And coffee.” He flashes a crooked smile.

“Breakfast?” He wishes he could find more than one word at a time.

“Yeah. Uh, can I come in? The tray’s not heavy or anything, but standing here smelling eggs and pancakes and bacon is making me hungry.”

Clint takes a step back and Bucky goes past him and straight to the kitchen table. “It looks like a lot, I know. I don’t claim to have any medical knowledge or anything, but I suspect you’re going to be pretty hungry for awhile, until you even out. I’d guess your metabolism is through the roof; I know your bones are lighter now, but you’re still a big guy. It’s gonna take a lot of energy to get you off the ground.”

As soon as Bucky finishes Clint realizes he’s starving. Punctuating his thoughts, his stomach gives a loud rumble. Bucky chuckles.

“Eat up. You’ll feel better when you do.” Bucky doesn’t have to repeat himself. Clint swallows half of one of the cups of coffee and then plucks a piece of bacon off the tray.

“Mmm,” he moans, taking a bite. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky piles food onto a plate. “The first time I woke up--after the serum--it felt like I hadn’t eaten in months. I would have eaten anything...which was probably a good thing. They didn’t give me anything that resembled food. I had to eat these--well, they looked like bricks. They were full of all of the nutrients a growing supersoldier needs to survive.” He laughs, a dry, humorless chuckle. “They weren’t at all concerned with making me _happy_. And of course I ate it, it was all I had and if I didn’t eat I felt like I was stuck in oatmeal, barely able to take a step. Soon I didn’t think much about food at all; food was just fuel to keep me going. To complete the mission. But when I’d go out on missions--out into the real world--I’d smell baking bread, or someone grilling burgers, and I’d just freeze. For decades the only real memories I had were of food. There were vague impressions of the people I shared the food with, but they were mostly faceless. It was all about the food. Chocolate cake, pot roast, corn on the cob, warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream melting on the top…”

He finally looks up from his breakfast, and Clint’s face must be as wide-eyed and incredulous as he’s feeling, because a flush rises on Bucky’s cheeks. “I just thought you’d be hungry,” he says, ducking his head.

“That’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say in a row,” Clint says. After a beat he adds, “I’m sorry they took your memories away. That...that just fucking sucks.” It’s his turn to blush. So lame.

“Yeah.” Bucky offers him a small smile. “But at least now I’m making new ones.” After what seems like a very long moment he tears his eyes away from Clint’s, nodding toward the food. “Eat, sweetheart. And more than just bacon and coffee.”

Clint freezes. That can’t be right. “Sweetheart?” It comes out as half croak, half squeak.

Bucky has uncertainty all over his face. “Last night you said you liked it,” he says softly.

He’s so surprised he stumbles backward a step, then falls into the nearest chair without thinking. He jumps back to his feet with a yelp, shaking out his wings. His feathers are ruffled, several are even bent out of place. He makes himself look at Bucky. “Are you...do you mean last night was _real_?”

Bucky rubs a hand over his eyes, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Clint. You were pretty out of it, but…” He heaves a shaky sigh. “Yeah, last night was real.”

Clint replays the night before in his head. He’d been _so sure_ it was a dream. The faint blush on his cheeks heats to a flame when he remembers the way he’d acted, the things he’d said.

“Your wings keep twitching,” Bucky says. “You okay?”

“Slouching into the chair without thinking wasn’t the best thing for my feathers,” Clint hears himself say. He’s still got the night before on repeat in his head. “Some of them are out of place, and it’s uncomfortable.”

“Is twitching them like that helping?” Bucky sounds genuinely curious.

Clint forces himself to think about his wings, his feathers, his body. Anything to stop thinking about Bucky’s lips on his forehead. “Not really,” he admits. He reaches over his shoulder, trying to reach the offending feathers. He ends up turning in a circle, reaching for the wing but having it turn with his body so of course he can’t get it. He has a sudden image of Lucky chasing his tail and laughs out loud.

With a small chuckle Bucky says, “Here. Let me.” And with no more warning than that Bucky’s hands are in his feathers again and Clint can barely breathe. Bucky’s fingers are deft, slipping through his feathers to find the bent ones and ease them back into place. A few he plucks out; these he lines up on the table. “Your primary feathers are fine, these are just coverts.” He goes on straightening, and Clint feels a twinge as Bucky says, “Oh. This one’s a primary. Sorry.” The feather he lays on the table is over a foot long, and Clint picks it up, feeling the silky softness against his own fingers. It’s banded white and reddish brown, except for the tip where it looks like someone brushed it through purple ink.

Bucky shifts behind him, moving to the other wing. Clint is overwhelmed by the feeling of Bucky’s fingers in his feathers; his eyes flutter closed and he moans softly. “ _Bucky_.” The name escapes his lips without conscious thought.

A low, pleased rumble comes from somewhere in Bucky’s chest, and Clint nearly whimpers. He can feel the babbles start rising up his throat, phrases like _don’t stop_ and _that’s the best thing I’ve ever felt_ and _**fuck** , Bucky, your fingers are amazing_ when suddenly the adept fingers in his wing are gone and the heat that is Bucky is sidling past him to sit on the opposite side of the table. He ignores Clint’s frustrated glare and nods at the tray of food between them.

“Eat. Your body needs fuel.”

Clint wants to argue, but his stomach chooses exactly that moment to voice another protest in the form of a too-loud growl. So instead he flips the chair around, straddles it, and starts piling food on his plate. Scrambled eggs filled with ham and onions and melted cheese, blueberry pancakes and maple syrup, the simple perfection of bacon. He can’t help the tiny moan of pleasure as a piece of bacon dripping accidental syrup hits his taste buds. Perfect harmony.

He glances up to see Bucky watching him eat, the hint of a smile at his lips and in his eyes. “Feelin’ better, sweetheart?”

Rather than answer, Clint says, “How do you know so much about feathers?”

Bucky looks away, his cheeks pinking. “I may have done some research while you were in medical,” he mumbles.

“What, you googled _bird anatomy_ or something?”

Bucky’s blush brightens.

“You did!” Clint laughs so hard he nearly chokes. “You know I’m not actually a bird, right?”

“Well I didn’t think I’d learn much about wings if I looked up _dolphins_ ,” Bucky deadpans. Then he smiles. “I actually sent Stevie to the library for me. The internet’s good, but I still prefer holding a book in my hands. I have a bunch of books on hawks, if you want to have a look. A few on eagles too. I didn’t bother with songbirds or corvids or much else; if anyone’s a bird of prey, it’s you.”

Clint is both touched and saddened that Bucky sees that in him.

Bucky picks up his fork again, dredging a bite of pancake through the lake of syrup on his plate. “Eat,” he says. “Then I’ll teach you about your wings.”

“How’s this gonna work?” Clint asks. “I can’t actually see behind me, you know.”

Bucky winks at him. “I wasn’t born yesterday, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, you were born like a century ago, old man,” Clint shoots back, grinning.

“Not you too,” Bucky says in an overly dramatic voice. “It’s bad enough dealing with Stark.”

Clint clasps a hand to his chest. “Ouch. I think I may actually be wounded. You just compared me to _Tony_.”

Ignoring his lament, Bucky takes Clint by the upper arms and turns him so his back is to the giant mirror in his bathroom. (“It reflects the light and makes the room brighter,” Tony had said. “I’m not budging on the mirror.” Clint had just rolled his eyes. Sometimes it’s easier to let Tony have his way.) “How is this gonna--” Clint asks, but then he sees what Bucky’s holding. Another mirror, this one about a foot square with a wire across the back. Bucky reaches up with his metal arm, almost as high as he can reach, and he pushes a nail into the wall. With no effort at all.

“That’s handy,” Clint says, and then groans at his unintentional pun.

“Never heard that one before,” Bucky says dryly.

Clint sputters a protest. “It was an accident!”

“Sweetheart, you’re all over a walking accident.” Bucky looks him up and down, then adds, “Or possibly a _flying_ accident.”

Clint shrugs, remembering he’d thought almost exactly the same thing an hour or so before. “Pretty much.”

Turning back to the wall, Bucky hangs the mirror on the nail. It hangs slightly forward so it reflects at a downward angle, and when Clint stands in the right place he gets his first real look at his wings.

“Wow,” he breathes. “They’re actually kind of--”

“Beautiful,” Bucky finishes. 

Clint looks up, startled. Bucky’s eyes catch his in the mirror, and he suddenly has no idea what they’re doing in his bathroom. All he knows is he’s looking at Bucky, and Bucky’s looking back at him, and nothing on the earth could possibly drag his eyes away. Their eyes are still locked when Bucky runs a finger along the edge of his wing, across the longest feathers. A shudder runs through Clint, all the way to the tips of his wings. His pleasure must show on his face because Bucky’s eyes widen; just a fraction, but enough that Clint notices.

“These are the primaries--the flight feathers.” Bucky’s voice is low and catches in his throat. “These--the long ones past the first joint--are the secondaries. These down here, closest to your body, are the tertials.” His fingers skim lightly over the feathers as he points them out, and it’s all Clint can do to pay attention to Bucky’s explanations. “These in the middle are greater coverts, and these smallest ones on the very top are middle and lesser coverts. This right here--this small grouping of feathers just at the first joint--are called the alula. And these softer ones here--where the wing is joined to your body--are called the scapulars.”

The feeling of Bucky’s fingers in those last ones--the scapulars?--is too much and a moan escapes Clint’s lips. His eyes flick to Bucky’s and the intensity he sees there cuts the sound short. Bucky looks like he wants to hold Clint again--and maybe never let go.

“Thanks, Buck,” Clint somehow manages to say.

“I just thought…” Bucky’s blushing again. “I just thought you’d like to know. About the feathers.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. He feels slightly dizzy, like they’re having another conversation underneath the first but he can’t quite grasp it. Bucky hasn’t stopped his preening and it’s hard to focus on anything with waves of pleasure washing over him. He’s suddenly very aware that he’s only wearing pants; it’s plenty warm in the bathroom but his arms prickle with goosebumps anyway.

Bucky’s running his fingers through the small, downy feathers he’d called scapulars, and Clint can see that he’s peering intently at his back. “It’s beautiful, the way the wings blend perfectly into your back. There’s your wing, and then there’s your back with a dusting of feathers, and then there’s just your back. And look.” He runs a hand along Clint’s bare skin, above the joining of wing to body. “You have brand new muscles here. Incredible.”

Clint wants to pay attention, he really does. He wants to find all the new bits of himself, inside and out, and figure out how it all works. He wants to know what else Bucky learned from his books. But all he can think about is Bucky’s hand on his skin. The easy way Bucky touches him. The look of mingled curiosity and wonder on his beautiful face. The way his eyes light up when he smiles.

Oh fuck. He is utterly, completely gone.

“Bucky.” The name comes out as a moan, a growl, a wish.

Bucky’s head snaps up, and he locks onto Clint’s eyes in the mirror. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something but then he hesitates, and Clint’s stomach drops. Clint’s brain works frantically, trying to piece together the puzzle. He’s not imagining this, is he? There’s something there with Bucky. He’s not just seeing it because it’s what he’s wanted for so long. He’s _not_. Bucky called him--

“You’re thinking too much, sweetheart,” Bucky says, bringing Clint out of his head and back to the world. He slips his arms around Clint again, and this time he kisses Clint’s back, right between his wings.

The sensation is too much; Clint’s knees buckle and he nearly falls, but Bucky’s arms around him tighten and he takes Clint’s weight. At the same time Clint pulls his wings tight to his body and somehow this works; even though the wings are pressed between them he doesn’t feel any feathers being bent or pulled out.

He’s always been one to go with his gut, living on his instincts and, if he’s honest with himself, a good deal of luck. Yes, he has natural talents that he’s nurtured into a rather impressive skill set, but there’s only so much you can _learn_. Some things you just have to _feel_. It’s a good thing he already knows how to live like this, since there isn’t really anyone out there who can teach him how to live with wings. Sam’s wings don’t count, exactly, although he may be able to give him a few tips. He’s going to have to feel his way.

But this thing with Bucky…

Bucky’s right. He’s thinking too much. But his instincts are muddled by the fact that every time Bucky touches him he starts to feel like he’s drowning--in the very best way possible. It’s overwhelming. The snowflake that becomes an avalanche. The trickle that becomes a river, rushing to the sea.

He covers his face with his hands, voicing his frustration in a drawn out growl. He wants to turn around, to look into Bucky’s eyes without the mirror between them. He wants Bucky to keep holding him. He wants Bucky to kiss his feathers again.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

“Hey,” Bucky says, all soothing concern. “Hey, it’s alright. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, okay? No pressure. I thought...but if it’s not what you want I’ll back off.” He’s quiet for a breath, then adds, “I can’t let go of you until you’re holding yourself up, though. I don’t want you to fall.”

Clint’s reeling. Bucky thinks he doesn’t want this? Doesn’t want _him_? Slowly he takes his own weight, and he’s left aching when Bucky’s arms fall away.

He turns and looks down at Bucky, barely resisting the urge to tangle his fingers in Bucky’s hair. “Hey,” he says. “You’re the one who said it. I’m thinking too much. And I’m fucking overwhelmed, Bucky.” Bucky’s eyebrows raise at this, but he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

“I’m not sure about how I’m going to sit comfortably in my own place. I’m not sure if I’m ever going to learn how to fly. But I’m absolutely sure about you, Bucky Barnes. So will you kiss me already?”

He sees Bucky’s eyes light up and decides life’s too short to wait. Before Bucky can make a move, _Clint’s_ kissing _him_.

For a fraction of a breath Clint worries that he’s dreaming again, but that’s resolved quickly enough--he could never so perfectly conjure the softness of Bucky’s lips, the beating of his heart against Clint’s chest, the feel of Bucky’s hands--the metal one somehow almost as warm as the flesh--cupping his face. It’s all so perfect, and still somewhat overwhelming, that he feels the heat of tears prickle behind his eyelids. He pulls away, shuddering a breath, trying to regain his composure.

Bucky gives him a wink. “So what’s the verdict?” he drawls. “Real or not real.”

Clint groans, biting back a laugh. “We never should have shown you those Hunger Games movies.”

Bucky grins, then says, “Well?”

Without warning Clint pushes Bucky against the bathroom counter; his wings spread involuntarily, making him seem even bigger. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks, _That’s a neat trick._ But he’s mostly captured by the supersoldier pressed against him, the heat and the smile and the hitching breath.

“You are _not_ in my head,” Clint says. Then he grins, almost laughing. “But my head’s got a few ideas for where I’d like to have you instead.”

Bucky groans. “That was–”

He’s interrupted by Clint’s lips against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Not _all_ angst. Sometimes sweet kisses.
> 
> *happy sigh*
> 
> Pherryt, thanks for the encouragement and for talking me through the end of this chapter.
> 
> BDBD, thanks for the sprints!
> 
> Arson, thanks for being so enthusiastic and excited; hope the new chapter was worth the wait!!
> 
> 💜🏹⭐️


	5. Chapter 5

Clint’s seriously considering flinging himself off a building.

He’s been trying to learn to fly for a week now, and he’s got nothing. It’s absolutely ridiculous, because he’s been leaping from rooftop to rooftop for his entire career as an Avenger, and using his grappling arrows to swing to and from–let’s face it–unsafe situations, but somehow he just can’t get this.

At least he can wear shirts again. It’s rather a pain to get dressed, but he’s getting better. And he’s got furniture too. Pepper had been right, a chaise lounge is the perfect thing for him. He can sit, he can sprawl, he can even perch.

But the flying…

Maybe it’s all the people watching him. There are the doctors, and other scientists, and always several people who are just plain curious about the Avenger who suddenly sprouted wings. He can’t go to his “flight room”–a large, open, high ceilinged place they usually use for group sparring matches and other odd types of training–without drawing at least a small crowd.

It shouldn’t make him nervous. He _thrives_ on this stuff; he practically grew up in front of a crowd. He can shoot with perfect, deadly accuracy with explosions going off around him, while he’s falling, and someone’s calling his name–all at the same time. But somehow when it comes to learning to fly he can feel all the eyes on him, can hear the whispers, can taste the disappointment. His palms are sweaty and there’s an ache behind his eyes. All of this–it’s getting too heavy to carry.

“Any other ideas, Dr. Case?” He wipes his face with a towel, then slings it over his shoulder. “I hate to admit it, but you’ve got eyes. This isn’t working. And look, I know my bones are stronger now and can take the beating, but I’m pretty tired of getting banged up every day. My bruises have bruises.”

Dr. Case offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s certainly not our intent to ‘bang you up’, as it were,” she says. “Dr. Strange and I have been conferring, and we’ve got a couple of thoughts. First, we’d like you to sit down with Ms. Maximoff. She spoke with Dr. Strange and myself earlier, and she let us know that she’d like to speak with you. She thinks she may have a unique perspective, and we agree.” Clint gives her an odd look and she actually laughs. “Have I ever steered you wrong, Clint? Please don’t stop trusting me now.” Clint relents with a nod. “Good. Second, we think you need a little time off from training. You’re working yourself too hard, and you’re too much in your head. Spend time with your friends. Go to the dog park. Call Kate.”

“Kate’s been sort of...undercover,” he says absently. “She can’t take phone calls.” It’s not exactly true. But it’s easier to say that than to explain that she’s protecting someone who is terrified of technology so she’s completely off the grid for a bit. He’s not quite sure how she’s doing that in LA of all places, but Kate’s resourceful. And as far as the dog park goes… Well. Being mobbed as soon as he steps outside the Tower is not his idea of a relaxing time.

“I think you’re missing the point, Barton,” Strange says, his voice dry and irritated. “Find something to take your mind off flying–or rather, _failing_ at flying–for a few days.”

“You’ve got a lovely bedside manner, Strange,” Clint says cheerfully. “I’m so glad to have you on my team.”

Clint sees Dr. Case hold back the words she wants to say; instead she just glares at Strange. It feels good to have someone on his side. He’s not really all that irritated with Strange, though. He really _is_ failing at flying, and rather spectacularly at that. He just doesn’t enjoy having his nose rubbed in it.

“Ms. Maximoff said you could stop by her floor anytime this evening. She’s eager to chat with you.” She smiles at Clint, a soft, reassuring kind of smile. “I believe in you, Clint. You can do this. You’ve got a lot of people on your side.”

Clint glances towards the door and can’t help the grin that slips onto his face at the sight of the figure leaning against the wall near the doorway. “Thanks, Dr. Case,” he says. His eyes never leave Bucky. “I’ll rest up, and we’ll get back to work...uh...soon?”

“We’ve lost him,” Strange sighs, but Clint doesn’t stick around to listen to the rest of their conversation. His feet carry him to Bucky, who pushes himself away from the wall and wraps an arm around Clint’s waist when he’s close enough.

“Missed you,” Clint says, brushing a soft kiss on Bucky’s forehead.

“I was here the whole time,” Bucky says. “Which you know, because we walked here together.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t _touch_ you,” Clint says with a pout. Having finally touched Bucky, he’s found he can’t get enough.

Bucky rolls his eyes but either won’t or can’t argue. He’s not exactly been keeping his distance from Clint himself.

“C’mon,” Clint says after a minute or two of just standing, wrapped up in each other. “I need to get cleaned up, and then apparently we’re going to talk to Wanda.”

“We?”

“You’re not gonna make me go alone, are you?”

Bucky grunts a non-committal response, but he follows Clint to the elevator. Clint grins at him, all sass and swagger.

“Shut up,” Bucky growls half-heartedly.

“Didn’t say a word.”

In answer Bucky slams Clint into the elevator wall; Clint’s wings automatically spread wide to buffer him so Bucky puts one hand on Clint’s chest and the other he buries in feathers. Clint’s breath catches in his throat.

“You’re a menace,” Bucky says, rough and low, but his eyes are bright with witheld laughter.

Clint lowers his head to brush a kiss on Bucky’s temple. He keeps his lips there, smiling into Bucky’s skin. “Pretty sure you knew what you were getting into with me,” he murmurs. “I’ve always been a menace.”

The elevator door slides open behind them, accompanied by a soft ding. “Oh, _come on_. Do _not_ defile my elevator!”

“There’s no defiling going on here, Stark.” Bucky’s voice is lazy.

“Yet.” The response is quiet and sarcastic, and it takes Clint a few seconds to realize it had been _Steve_. He snorts a laugh.

Truth to tell, there hasn’t been any “defiling” of anything going on. Not the new chaise lounge, not the living room wall–although Clint thinks about that one quite a lot; any wall, really, but that particular stretch of wall is free of any artwork or anything else and would probably be most comfortable–not even Clint’s bed. Not anywhere on his floor.

Unless you count the frantic jerking off Clint does when Bucky leaves.

There’s a lot of kissing. A _lot_ of kissing. A lot of...wandering hands. But also a lot of long conversations, curled up together on what Clint has decided is a nearly perfect piece of furniture. He’d never heard of a chaise lounge before, but it sure works out great for two superheroes who want to make out. Especially when one of them has wings.

Bucky comes from a different time, an older time. “I want you. I want every part of you. But I want to take it slow. Easy.” Clint must have made a tragic face because Bucky had laughed and said, “I don’t mean a year, sweetheart. Just a little while, okay? I promise.” He’d cupped Clint’s face in his hands and said, “Let me court you like a gentleman should.” At that Clint felt all warm inside; how could he say no to that?

“What’re you two up to?” Steve asks, clearly trying to change the subject.

“I’ve got to go shower, then we’re going to see Wanda. Apparently she thinks she can teach me how to fly.”

“I can help you with that, Legolas,” Tony says brightly. “Take you up a ways and then just let go. I’m sure instinct will kick in before you hit the ground.” He makes his “thinking” face. “We’d better do it over the water. Just in case. Don’t want to hit any innocent bystanders.”

“Tony!” Steve is clearly horrified.

“I think I’ll go talk to Wanda,” Clint says, in a _letting you down gently_ kind of tone. “I’ll keep you in mind, though.” He meets Bucky’s eyes and he can read in them that Bucky’s as “not amused” as he is.

They arrive at Clint’s floor a moment later and are spared most of Tony’s further ruminations on bird instincts and mother birds tossing their fledglings out of the nest.

“Honestly, do I _look_ like a bird?” Clint asks as the elevator door closes on Tony’s continued ramblings.

“Well…” Bucky lets the word linger; his eyes linger too.

Clint groans. “Ugh, not you too.”

Bucky runs his thumb across Clint’s pouting lips. “You’re _you_ , doll. Just a little...extra.” When his other hand begins to preen the feathers he can reach Clint practically purrs.

“You know, I’m beginning to love the extra,” he moans, a hitch in his voice.

Bucky softly kisses Clint’s lips, then says, “I’m beginning to love _you_.”

Something in Clint shifts, like when he’s got a bow in his hands and the target comes into perfect focus, when everything else just falls away and he knows he cannot miss. _I love you too_ , he doesn’t say, because the words get lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. He only manages to stand and stare.

Bucky smiles, tugging on his elbow to encourage him to move. “Don’t you need a shower?”

Finding his voice again, Clint says, “Shower. Right. Uh, now.” He turns, buffeting Bucky with his wings in the process. Bucky chuckles, and Clint resists the urge to smack himself in the forehead. He only hits things with his wings when he’s flustered, and he’s pretty sure Bucky’s already picked up on that.

He showers quickly–and easily, now that his new giant-size shower has been installed–and pulls on a well-worn pair of jeans and one of his newly altered hoodies. It’s still awkward to put them on, but he’s getting better. It only takes three tries to fasten at the neck this time.

Wanda’s waiting for them on her floor. They’ve exchanged the regular niceties and are still in the process of sitting down–Clint on a thoughtfully provided ottoman–when she says, rather bluntly, “You’re not a bird, Clint.”

Jumping back to his feet before really even sitting down, Clint shouts, “See! I told you, Buck! _Not_ a bird.”

Wanda and Bucky look at him, each wearing different but somehow similarly indulgent and exasperated looks. Wanda asks calmly, “May I continue, or are you going to shout some more?”

Sitting down with as much dignity as he can muster, Clint says, “Go on then.”

She begins again. “I’ve watched you trying to fly. You mimic all different kinds of birds in their take-off methods; have you been watching YouTube videos?”

There’s no need for him to answer, the pink rising on his cheeks is answer enough. He ducks his head.

She puts a comforting hand on his knee. “It was a good idea, but it’s not going to work. You might have wings, but you’re not a bird, and trying to act like one is only going to frustrate you. Flying...for you, it’s going to be more magic than physics, I think.”

“Magic?” Clint flutters his wings, agitated.

“Look at you. You aren’t remotely the right shape for flying, but your muscles and bones changed when you got the wings, so most of us think that you are meant to be able to fly. Your internal organs even shifted around. I have no idea how a long and gangly thing like you is going to get off the ground, practically speaking, but magic seems like a good bet. These are all guesses, of course, because it’s not like there’s anyone we can ask, but I think it’s mostly about _will_. You have to _want_ to fly, _really_ want it. Your muscles and feathers and all that will figure out the rest.”

Wanda shrugs, almost embarrassed, then adds, “I think.”

“The doctors think I should take a break, stop trying and clear my head for a little while,” Clint says, slowly, after a pause. “Do you agree?”

“It was actually my idea,” she says. “Dr. Case agreed immediately, and Dr. Strange only took a few minutes to convince. Mostly because it wasn’t his idea.” She fails to suppress a grin. “Dr. Strange doesn’t like it when good ideas come from other people.”

Bucky laughs at this. “Sounds about right.”

Ignoring the commentary, Clint presses on. “I’ve been thinking about leaving the city. Not forever, just for a little while,” he rushes to add when he sees Bucky’s stricken face. “I’ve got...a place.”

Wanda nods thoughtfully. “The Hawkeye Hideaway? Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Somewhere west of here, yes?”

Clint snorts. “Yeah, somewhere west. And there’s lots of open space. Maybe I’ll do better without crowds of people staring at my failed attempts.” His smile is half-hearted at best. “Also, I can’t believe there’s so much secret talk about my place that you all have given it a name. Though I have to say I’m surprised you don’t call it the Hawk’s Nest. That’s _way_ better than the Hawkeye Hideaway.” He winks, and the accompanying smile is more genuine.

Wanda’s laugh is loud and bright. “I can’t wait to repeat that to Tony. He’ll be so mad he didn’t think of it first.”

As her laughter dies away she turns to Clint and says, “I think it’ll be wonderful. Breathe some fresh air, get out of your head. And you probably haven’t been able to leave the Tower much, have you?”

That’s true enough. He hasn’t even dared to go to his place in Bed-Stuy. Eventually he’s going to have to face the world as this new–improved?–Hawkey, but right now he’s just trying to get through a day without accidentally crushing his feathers when he sits. He knows as soon as word gets out that he has wings he’s going to be at the center of attention. Most of the time he _likes_ the limelight, thrives on it even, but not when he’s still trying to figure out who he is.

Plus, he can’t exactly hide his wings under a trenchcoat. Not that he’d tried or anything.

“I think Nat will fly me out,” he says, mostly to himself. “And she’ll come get me when I’m ready to come back.”

“Good,” Wanda says, unfolding herself from the sofa to stand in front of him. He stands too, and she hugs him tightly. “Good,” she says again. He returns the hug, surprised at her affection.

“Thanks,” he says, and if his voice is a little rougher than usual, no one says anything.

Bucky, never the chattiest of fellows, is unusually silent on the elevator to Clint’s floor. Several times Clint almost says something, but he somehow manages to hold his tongue. They arrive on the floor and, still without speaking, they perch next to each other on the stools at the newly installed breakfast bar, the one that overlooks the city. It too is eerily silent; they can see the frenzy of motion but distance and good building materials block any sound.

Looking at his hands, Bucky says, “You’re leaving?” His voice is falsely light. Clint can hear that it’s close to breaking.

“I’m–” But he doesn’t know what to say. How to put into words everything that’s been spinning through his head since he woke up with fucking _wings_ growing out of his back. He doesn’t know how to control the damn things. Sometimes it’s as easy as thought and other times they seem to do things on their own. Does he have new instincts? Is that even _possible_? He’s always been the unknown Avenger, the invisible Avenger, the unrecognized Avenger. Now he’s nearly as flashy as Iron Man. Certainly he’s prettier, though Tony might argue the title. And then there’s Bucky–holding his hand, preening his feathers, kissing him breathless. Bucky, his secret crush, somehow crushing back. How could the best and scariest and weirdest things all happen at exactly the same time? And how is it that he’s not sure which is which?

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It’s too much. So he just says, “Yeah, I think I’m leaving. Just for a little while. I’m starting to feel like a caged animal, Buck. Worse, a _zoo_ animal. Everyone’s always staring, and it feels like there’s nowhere to hide. I know they aren’t doing it on purpose; I’m a novelty, and it’ll wear off with the people in the Tower once they get used to me. And I’m gonna have to get used to it too, ’cause from now on I’m gonna attract attention wherever I go. But right now it’s just…” He runs his fingers through his hair, nails raking at his scalp. “It’s just too much.”

Bucky runs flesh fingers over the metal plates of his arm. Huh. Maybe he _does_ get it, at least somewhat.

“Alright,” Bucky says, eyes still fixed on his hands. “Do you...I mean, can I help you pack?”

“Sure,” Clint says. The space between them feels awkward for the first time since that first tentative kiss almost a week ago. He scrubs at the back of his neck, then digs in his pocket for his phone. “Better call Natasha and make sure she’ll fly me out.”

“She’d do anything for you,” Bucky says softly. Then, so quietly Clint nearly misses it, he adds, “I know the feeling.”

He’s a bit lost, thinking about those words and what they mean, when Nat answers her phone. “You need a lift?” she asks.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts. “How did you–”

“Word gets around.”

“Right.” He’s pretty sure the Tower is held up by all the air moved around when people gossip.

After a pause she asks, “Just you?”

His brows knit in confusion. “Yeah, who else…” The words fall into nothingness as yet again everything clicks into place. He’s having too many of these moments lately; he should probably just carry around a whiteboard so people could just spell things out for him. “I’ll call you back.”

He can hear her laughing as he ends the call.

Bucky’s giving him a sort of half smirk, half glare. “You heard then?”

He taps an ear. “Supersoldier hearing. Not as good as Steve’s, but still far better than your average human.” He squirms a little, then adds, “Besides, Natalia’s voice is...distinct. I can’t help but overhear when her voice is nearby.”

Clint chuckles at that. “You’re right about that. She demands to be noticed. Except when she doesn’t want to be. She’s…”

“Something else,” Bucky finishes, finally smiling.

Clint’s voice is soft and sincere. “Do you want to come with me, Buck? I never even thought to ask, I’m so used to being just me. I kind of suck at relationships.”

“You’re doin’ just fine, sweetheart,” Bucky says, cupping Clint’s face in his hands. Clint blushes and tries to look away but Bucky says, “No. Look at me, doll. This is new territory for both of us, we’ve got to make it up as we go along. We can make our own map, alright?” Clint’s still blushing fiercely but he nods, Bucky’s hands still on his face.

“Good,” Bucky says, as if it’s settled. He brushes his lips across Clint’s, gentle, just a small taste of the future. “I don’t know how much I can actually help with the whole flying thing, but I’d love to go with you. If you’ll have me.”

“Why James Buchanan Barnes, do you have designs on my virtue?” Clint says in a mock scandalized voice. His eyes are dancing merrily.

It’s Bucky’s turn to blush. In fact, he turns so red Clint can actually feel the heat radiating from him. Bucky mutters something Clint can’t quite make out, something about the couch being good enough for him. Clint has mercy, giving in to the adorableness that is Bucky Barnes.

“I’m teasing, Buck. Of course you can come. And it’s a big house, plenty of bedrooms. No couches for you. Although that reminds me. JARVIS!”

“Yes, Agent Barton?” the AI answers.

“You know, I don’t think I’m actually an agent anymore. Can’t exactly be a spy looking like this.”

“Until I’m told otherwise I’ll address you as such, Agent Barton. What can I do for you?”

Oddly touched, Clint clears his throat and says, “Can you get me another one of these chaise lounge things? I’ll need one for the fa–for my place. I’ll need it delivered as soon as possible, please.”

“Any color preference?”

Before Clint can answer Bucky says, “Purple.”

“You really get me, Buck,” Clint says, kissing his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*
> 
> Hi all! Chapter six isn't _quite_ done, but I kinda thought posting this one might give me the proper motivation to finish. I _think_ six is the last one, with a little epilogue after, but I of course reserve the right to change my mind. 'Cause I've never done _that_ before. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re gonna get burned, sweetheart.”

Clint grunts. He doesn’t feel like moving. He’s liked lying in the sun since he was a kid–like a cat finding the sunny spot on the carpet–but the sun shining on his feathers is something altogether new. It makes him feel drowsy and content and Bucky plucking blades of grass and flicking them into his hair and feathers isn’t nearly enough to make him want to move.

“Just think of the weird tan line you’re gonna have, where your feathers fan across your back.”

“Not like anyone but you’s gonna see it,” Clint mumbles, half asleep.

“You’ll get skin cancer.”

“Do hawks get skin cancer?”

“You’re not a–” But Bucky seems to realize it’s useless to argue. He sighs, giving up. Clint hears him settle into the grass next to him and can’t help but smirk. Just a little.

They’ve been at the farm for days, breathing clean air, feeling the sun on their skin and the grass under their feet. At first Bucky had been horrified at the mere suggestion of going barefoot but he’d come around after the first time Clint coaxed him onto the soft grass beyond the back porch. Now Clint suspects he’s going to have a difficult time getting Bucky back into his boots when they eventually have to go back to the Tower. Or even into town for groceries. Which, the way they both eat, is coming fairly soon.

Life is nearly perfect, here on the farm. He misses Nat and, really, all the others...even Tony and his obnoxious charm. But it’s so easy, with no one trying to kill them every few minutes and no figuring out if it’s okay to stare longingly at your teammate or if he’ll punch you in the face if he knows what you’re thinking, how you’ve been feeling.

But here. Here things are simple. They walk the perimeter in the morning to make sure the cameras are working and are unobstructed–“Branches fall sometimes, Buck. They unintentionally block camera angles. We have to check every day.”–plus check that the alarm system is functioning properly. They do little repair jobs–one of the porch steps is loose, a few of the slats on the porch swing need to be replaced, the farm truck needs an oil change. Bucky laughs when Clint says they need to split firewood but stops when he sees the serious look on his face. “It may be midsummer, but it’s always a good time to split firewood. It gets cold out here in the winter.”

Besides, Bucky swinging an axe is a sight to behold.

When they’re hungry, they cook. Neither one of them is much good, but who cares about that? They work together, and since they both burn through calories at a tremendous rate and are therefore pretty much always famished they don’t mind if what they end up with doesn’t taste that great. Much. Clint is hoping when they get around to making pizza they’ve improved enough to not ruin _that_. But since both of them can make a good pot of coffee he can’t complain.

And in the in-between they… well. They do this. They laze in the grass, letting the Iowa sun soak into their bones. They twine their fingers together and talk about what Brooklyn was like in the 1930s, or what it was like living with a circus. Bucky talks about how much trouble Steve caused back before he became Cap, always getting into fights, always bleeding _somewhere_. “Guess he was preparin’ me for _you_ , sweetheart,” Bucky says, lightly running a finger over the purple band-aid on Clint’s cheek.

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault! The wind blew that branch into my face.” Clint is indignant.

“Mmm-hmm,” Bucky murmurs; the sound may convey agreement but the tone says he doesn’t believe Clint in the slightest.

So Clint sticks out his tongue at him. Bucky just laughs.

“Do you like it here?” Clint asks suddenly.

Bucky looks surprised. “Yeah, I do, doll. I wasn’t sure at first, I’m more of a city boy. But you’re so at home here, it’s hard to not slip into place beside you.”

Clint’s heart lifts at that. Just knowing Bucky wants a place beside him makes him want to grin like a golden retriever.

“Speaking of golden retrievers,” Clint says.

Bucky, startled, says, “We weren’t.”

“Weren’t what?”

Like he’s talking to a child, Bucky says, “We weren’t talkin’ about golden retrievers.”

“Oh!” Clint says. He chuckles. “I must have just been thinking it. Anyway, I finally heard from Katie-Kate. She’s done with her whole babysitting gig and she’s gonna bring Lucky out in a few days. I guess she talked Nat into flying them out.”

“None of that means anything to me. Except for the bit about Nat, I got that,” Bucky says. Clint can actually _hear_ his blank stare.

“Lucky is my dog. Katie-Kate you know, or at least you’ve heard of. She’s the other Hawkeye, the one who takes my place sometimes.” He tilts his head, thinking. “I guess that won’t really work anymore. Not unless she sprouts wings too. Which is a bit…”

“Improbable?” Bucky supplies.

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “It’s okay, I think. We can still both be Hawkeye. It’ll just be super obvious that there are two of us. That’s alright, it’ll make it clear to the bad guys that Hawkeye can be in two places at once.”

Bucky makes a noise that starts as a laugh and turns into a cough when Clint turns a level gaze on him. But Clint ruins it by winking.

Before Bucky can respond Clint rests his head on his arms again, breathing in the smell of grass and dirt and clean air, smells he hasn’t experienced in months. New York is nice–he loves the Tower, full of his teammates, his true family, and he’ll never let go of his Bed-Stuy apartment after all the trouble he’s gone through to get it and make it safe–but this, the farm, the fields, the giant, cloud-dotted sky, will always be his home. He has thoughts of retiring here someday, if the world will let him. Part time, at least.

Bucky says he likes it here. He can see himself settling here, if Bucky would agree to stay with him.

Okay, it hasn’t been all that long, really. But it feels so natural, so easy; they’ve just fallen into place beside one another. They’ve always been good as teammates, seemingly knowing just what the other needs without needing to speak. Aside from the odd hiccup here and there, that ease and natural binary orbit has transferred to their relationship. He’s a great big sap, and he knows it, but they belong together. They do. It’s not really the _farm_ that’s home, it’s _Bucky_.

“You fit here,” Bucky says, interrupting..

“Yeah?” Clint says absently, not even opening his eyes. “I just said this is home.”

Clint feels Bucky enter that state of unnatural stillness he is somehow capable of. “Are you thinking of staying?” he asks, his voice even. It barely sounds like a question.

“Well, _yeah_.” He’s suddenly nervous, jittery, and a small shudder goes through his wings. Had he said too much too fast? Maybe Bucky wasn’t ready to settle down yet. “I mean, not now, but _someday_. I’m not in a big rush or anything. Why? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

“I think you belong here,” Bucky says, his voice quiet and rough. “I’ve never seen you so easy, even with a bow. Of course you should stay.” He scrambles to his feet in a motion far too clumsy for the Winter Soldier, like he grew extra limbs while sitting in the grass. Clint pushes up onto his elbows, concerned. “I’m thirsty,” Bucky says, pointing at the house. “I’m gonna go get a drink.” Without another word he turns and walks towards the farmhouse.

Clint stares after him, slightly bewildered. They’d been having a nice talk, hadn’t they? About the farm and settling down and belonging? Clint told Bucky they fit together, that Bucky is his home, Bucky agreed...and then stalked off. Clint feels the binary orbit shift, gaining an unnatural wobble.

Shaking his head, Clint slumps back into the grass. Maybe he doesn’t understand Bucky as much as he’d thought.

Clint makes grilled chicken breasts and a salad for dinner.

Alone.

While the meat rests he sets the table, something he and Bucky usually do together. The clatter of the dishes, the clinking of the silverware, the solid thunk of the heavy water glasses on the worn oak table, they all just remind Clint how quiet the room is without Bucky. They’re usually talking, laughing, and yeah, sometimes stealing kisses when they do chores like this. He’s not even sure if he should be setting the table for two; he hasn’t seen Bucky since he walked away earlier that afternoon. Clint’s heard him walking around upstairs, but he’s been quiet for awhile. Maybe he’s asleep.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to see Clint.

But when Clint pulls out his chair to sit down, resigned to eating alone, he hears Bucky walk across the upstairs hallway and down the stairs, not remembering to skip the intentionally creaky ones. Bucky sits down in his usual chair, across from Clint, and for a minute or two they just look at each other. “Supersoldier hearing?” Clint asks. Bucky only nods.

The dinner isn’t silent–Bucky compliments the chicken, and appreciates the strawberries in the salad–but there’s a strain on the conversation that Clint doesn’t understand. He wants to ask, but he’s sure that’s the wrong play here, that it must be better to figure it out on his own and fix it, and then Bucky will smile again.

He sure is turning into a sappy mess, thinking how much more beautiful everything is when Bucky smiles.

“I didn’t make dessert, but there are strawberries left, and there’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer.” Bucky nods; he doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes brighten. Clint decides he’ll take it.

One of the first “improvements” they’d made on the farm was a simple backless bench in the yard. They sit on it now, side by side, feet and knees and hips and shoulders almost touching. Clint can feel the heat radiating from Bucky’s body, a sharp contrast to the cool bowl of ice cream he’s holding in his hands. The sun’s setting in the distance, setting Bucky’s metal arm aflame. All of him is fire, Clint thinks. Too much to hold onto without getting burned.

He wants to look at Bucky, but that might lead to talking and not knowing what to say, or to wanting to touch and not knowing if he should, so instead he looks at his ice cream. It’s good, melting into a creamy pink mess in his bowl. He didn’t have much ice cream in this yard when he was a kid, but there were lots of wild strawberries in the summer, and later in the year there were usually watermelon. He’d always sort of wondered why watermelon didn’t grow all over the yard, since he and Barney spit so many seeds here. He chuckles to himself, remembering little Clint searching for watermelon vines in the summer sun.

“Something funny?”

Bucky’s voice jars Clint out of the past. They’ve been silent since Clint offered the ice cream; Clint’s so startled he answers without thinking, relaying the memory. Bucky laughs–a genuine, rolling laugh–and, for a moment at least, all the awkwardness of the evening is gone. Clint hesitantly reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand, and although Bucky starts a bit at the contact, he reciprocates. “I’ll try not to be too much,” Bucky says, not quite looking at Clint. “This,” he gestures back and forth between them, “it’s good. It’s enough.”

Baffled, Clint doesn’t say anything. He has no idea what Bucky’s talking about, but he’s not going to argue. Bucky’s talking to him again, and holding his hand, and practically smiling at him. He feels like he could fly.

He stifles the giggle that tries to escape at that though. Because of course he _can’t_ fly. Not yet. But he’s getting closer every day.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Bucky folds his arms across his chest. “Clint. You throw yourself off of skyscrapers on a regular basis. Sometimes when they’re in the process of collapsing. Are you really second-guessing your plan to jump out of the loft doors? You probably jumped from there when you were a kid.”

“Well, yeah. But there was hay down there, and I was swinging on a rope!” He looks down at the ground, then looks at Bucky, a crooked grin on his face. “Besides, I didn’t always make the best decisions back then.”

Standing in the dust of the barnyard, Bucky heaves an overly dramatic sigh. “You didn’t have a big, handsome supersoldier to catch you back then, either. I’m not going to let you get hurt, sweetheart. Also, you didn’t have giant fucking _wings_ growing out of your back in those days, either. You don’t have to fly, no flapping involved here, just glide. Nice and easy.” He lowers his voice and mutters, “And you don’t exactly make the best decisions these days either, doll.” He doesn’t, however, lower his voice quite enough to keep Clint from hearing. From the way he glances up at Clint and smirks, Clint’s pretty sure that had been intentional.

Clint still hasn’t figured out what upset Bucky so much that afternoon a few days ago. He keeps replaying their conversation in his mind, but it just baffles him. And as much as he’d like to just accept that everything’s okay, he knows it’s not. Outwardly everything’s fine. They cook, they do chores, they hold hands and steal kisses and laze about in the sun. (And sometimes, if Bucky wins, in the shade. Because he insists that, on occasion at least, they really should protect their skin. Clint thinks it’s cute.) Sometimes they make out like they can’t get enough of each other, and Clint knows he’s not the only one who walks away from those times aching for more, and in more ways than one.

But.

Sometimes, when Bucky doesn’t realize he’s looking, Bucky looks like he’s already saying goodbye.

So when Bucky suggests he should really start working on learning to fly, Clint jumps at any chance to make Bucky happy.

Including, apparently, literally jumping out of the loft doors of the barn.

And Bucky’s right, he and Barney had swung from the hayloft hundreds–probably thousands–of times when they were kids. But only when there were giant piles of hay down below. And he’s also right about the other thing, Clint has thrown himself from much higher places since becoming an Avenger. But somehow this seems...different. He doesn’t have a grappling arrow. He’s not jumping knowing Tony or Sam will pluck him out of the air. He’s not even hitching a ride with the Hulk–not that he ever wants to do _that_ again. No, this time he’s supposed to rely on the wholly unreliable bits of sinew and feathers attached to his back, these wings that he hasn’t figured out how to control and that turn him into a babbling–albeit extremely happy–idiot every time Bucky gets near them. So no, it’s not really that high. But it’s high enough that he’s going to feel like an ass when he lands on his face.

If. If he lands on his face. Time to think positive, right?

“Anytime, sweetheart. The grass has grown three inches since you climbed up there.”

“It has n–”

“Just think,” Bucky muses, as if Clint hadn’t said anything at all. “If you could actually do something with those things on your back besides knock things over you wouldn’t have to climb ladders anymore. You could just flappity-flap and,” he makes a little swirling gesture in the air.

Clint just stares. His mouth may be hanging open a bit. This is very un-Bucky.

“On second thought, maybe you should just come back down the ladder. It’s always better not to fail, isn’t it?”

Without a thought Clint launches himself through the doors. His wings snap open behind him, catching the air, turning his fall into a perfectly controlled glide. Bucky doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even twitch, when Clint lands lightly on his feet to stand in front of him.

“What the hell was that all about?” Clint yells, directly into Bucky’s face.

“Well done,” Bucky says. Then he winks.

Breathing heavily, confused, irritated, exhilarated, and more than a little turned on, Clint just stares at Bucky. He sputters a few times, and then croaks out something that might be _what_ or might be _Buck_ or might just be a random sound that doesn’t mean anything at all. Somehow Bucky understands–even though Clint himself isn’t sure what he’d even meant–and pulls Clint into a tight embrace.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes. “I wish you could have seen yourself. That was–” He breaks off, somehow burying his face deeper into Clint’s neck. “You are so beautiful. Ugh, that sounds so trite, so...so _meaningless_. I don’t know how else to…” He looks up at Clint, and Clint feels the first traces of alarm; Bucky looks like he’s about to cry. Clint can handle crying–he’s done a bit of it himself since this whole insane wing thing started–but he has no idea what’s going on in Bucky’s head, or how to help.

“You’re like an angel,” Bucky says, lifting his face for a kiss.

Clint obliges. 

There’s dust on Bucky’s lips, and probably on his own, but it barely registers; all he can think is _Bucky Bucky Bucky_ : Bucky’s lips against his, Bucky’s hands, creeping under his t-shirt, cool against the suddenly overheated skin of his back, Bucky’s chest pressed against his own, their heartbeats somehow mixing together. There doesn’t seem to be any space between them, and Clint doesn’t seem to be breathing either because he’s starting to see starbursts behind his eyes.

Just before he can pull back to take a breath Bucky does it first, and he’s laughing. Not just laughing, but shaking with mirth, barely able to stand. Muttering something about not usually getting that response from his kisses Clint gets a firm grip on Bucky to make sure he doesn’t fall.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, nearly wheezing. “But I just got my own joke.” There are tears streaming down his face, and although he’s pretty sure the joke’s on him, Clint loves seeing that joy on Bucky’s face.

“Joke?” Clint asks, eyebrow raised.

“You’re like an _angel_ , Clint. An _avenging_ angel.”

Clint tries to hold the laugh back, but it bursts out anyway. Still, he has to say _something_. “Hey now. You do the cool robot arm thing, the being super old but still super hot thing, and the whole sexy murder face thing. I do the covered with band-aids thing, the drinks coffee out of the pot thing, and the really bad jokes thing. Don’t you think we should stick to our things?”

“You think my murder face is sexy?”

“Are you kidding? Have you _seen_ you, Bucky Barnes? Every part of you is sexy.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I don’t look in mirrors much. I’d rather look at you.”

“Maybe we should take a selfie. Then you could look at both of us at once.”

For a moment they just look at each other, and whatever tension that’s been between them the past few days melts away.

“It’s a good idea,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Clint says.

But neither of them moves. This moment, this dusty barnyard, feels like a spell they shouldn’t break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is chapter six, but it is _not_ the last chapter. Chapter six turned into a _monster_ , a _**behemoth**_. So now there's a chapter six and a chapter seven. Hopefully there won't be a chapter eight.
> 
> *hides*
> 
> (Oh, and it's looking like the rating is going up in chapter seven?? What even is my brain???)


	7. Chapter 7

“Coffee.” Clint stumbles his way into the kitchen, arms outstretched, making grabby hands at the mug of coffee in Bucky’s hands.

“You sound like a zombie from one of those weird movies you keep making me watch.”

Clint swallows half the coffee in one gulp then lets out a long, breathy sigh. “Ahhhhh. Much better. Brain doesn’t quite work before–” He stops, then looks up at Bucky. “Hey. Do I smell bacon?”

Chuckling, Bucky gestures at the table, which is not only set with dishes but with pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast, and orange juice.

Clint goggles. “It’s still hot! How did you time that right? I could have slept for hours.”

“I made the coffee last,” Bucky says dryly. “I knew that would wake you up at the right time.”

As if Bucky’s words remind him, Clint brings the mug in his hands to his lips and drinks the remaining coffee down. “Mmm. Coffee.”

Bucky picks up the pot and gestures with it towards Clint’s mug. “Need a refill for breakfast?” Clint just looks at him; Bucky sighs and fills the mug with steaming coffee. “That’ll stunt your growth, you know,” he says conversationally.

Clint nearly chokes, just barely keeps from spitting coffee back into his mug. “Considering I can see the top of your head from up here, I think I’ll risk it.”

Slouching into his chair–he’s still not quite awake, despite a full cup of coffee–he asks, “What’s with the royal treatment?”

“You’re hungry this morning, aren’t you?” Bucky asks, sitting much more gently in his own chair. “More than usual, I mean.”

Around the piece of bacon that’s already half gone in his mouth, Clint says, “Yeah.” He hadn’t realized until the smell of food flooded his brain, but yeah. He’s famished.

“Body’s doing new things, using new muscles. How many times did you jump out of the loft doors to glide yesterday? Six? Seven? You’ll need extra fuel for a day or two, then you’ll level out again.” It’s all matter-of-fact to Bucky, and Clint feels that little ping in his chest that reminds him how lucky he is. Not just to have the ridiculously hot supersoldier for kisses and snuggles and possible unknown sexcapades to come–oh come on, Clint’s brain, why did you have to word it like that?–but for keeping a cool head when all this weirdness would probably freak Clint, and anyone else, the fuck out. Not to mention if Steve had been the only supersoldier giving him advice about what to expect he’d probably be even worse off than when he started. Partly because Steve would try to overload him with information, partly because he’d be picturing Captain America telling him “Your body is changing” the whole time, and giggling would probably not be terribly helpful for learning.

Clint finishes the bacon and just looks at Bucky. After a minute or two of quiet, Bucky’s eyes slide away. “What?” he mutters, a faint blush to his cheeks.

“Just...thanks.” It sounds so small, but it’ll have to do. Clint reaches across the table and runs his fingers along the back of Bucky’s hand until Bucky flips it over so they can fit their hands together. Both have worn, calloused palms from a lifetime of wielding weapons and, more recently, tools. “Thanks,” Clint says again, and he’s not sure if he’s talking about the food, or the information, or the perfect stillness he feels inside when he sits in silence with Bucky’s palm against his.

A squirrel chitters on the back deck and the spell is broken. “Eat,” Bucky says hoarsely, pulling his hand away. “We need to walk the perimeter.”

Bucky’s right; even though Clint continues–and even increases–his gliding practice, his food intake returns to normal after a few days. Normal being relative; he still eats almost twice as much as he did before the wings. Still, his body doesn’t look much different, barring the glaringly obvious. He’s always been lean and muscular, from his archery and insane commitment to keeping up with enhanced humans, and he’s still lean and muscular. Only those who know him best would notice that the lines of his muscles have shifted slightly. There are new muscles across his chest and back, slightly changing his look. 

Bucky notices. 

He hasn’t said anything, but Clint sees his eyes move across Clint’s body with a seemingly approving gaze. And when he’s kissing Clint–oh, those kisses, don’t think too much about those kisses, Clint’s brain, we’re doing other things right now–his hands follow the lines of the new muscles. Clint’s not sure if it’s intentional or not, but it doesn’t matter much to Clint. What touches Clint in that place inside that seems to belong to Bucky now is that Bucky knows Clint well enough to know the new things, to appreciate every little part of him.

Oh, those kisses. 

He’s supposed to be shooting–it’s actually a competition with Bucky to see who can hit the most personal targets in fifteen minutes–but he’s pretty sure he can multitask. _Thunk_. His arrow is precisely in the middle of a purple target, so yeah, he’s confident of his multitasking abilities.

Those kisses. More heated every day. This morning they’d stopped on their morning walk to make out against a _tree_. Bucky’s mouth, like the rest of him, is a thing of beauty, and his tongue in Clint’s mouth makes Clint’s brain almost as wild as Bucky’s fingers in Clint’s feathers.

But Bucky’s been...well, he’s been _sad_. He doesn’t kiss Clint with any less enthusiasm, he doesn’t smile any less–although Bucky doesn’t smile all that often, now that Clint really thinks about it–he doesn’t mope or avoid Clint or anything like that. But discussions keep turning to the old days, to Bucky having to say goodbye to Steve when he went to war, to cold New York City winters with not quite enough food to go around, to how hard it was when he realized he liked boys but had to keep it secret. Of course Clint wants to hear these things, he wants to know everything Bucky wants to tell him, but it hurts him to see Bucky hurting, especially when he can’t seem to do anything about it. And he knows–he _knows_ –it has something to do with whatever happened in the meadow that day, but he still hasn’t figured that one out. So he just listens and holds Bucky’s hand and wishes he could wipe every hurt away from Bucky’s heart.

And he wishes, especially, that he could stop being the cause of this new, unknown pain.

The timer on his phone goes off, bringing him out of his thoughts. He runs a wrist across his forehead, wiping off sweat and smearing himself with dust and grime. A good workout, he thinks. Maybe he’d actually beaten Bucky this time? Bucky jogs lightly to a stop next to him. “How’d you do?” Bucky asks, not at all out of breath.

“Thirty-seven, I think” He knows. “We’ll count.” There’s really no need.

“Fuck,” Bucky curses. “Me too.”

As usual. They’re too evenly matched. Two different weapons, but equal talents.

They count the targets, but they’d both kept perfect track, of course. Clint is thankful the wings haven’t had a negative effect on his archery. Just before they’d appeared he’d been so _off_ , having to take precious seconds to aim, but now that he’s fully himself again–plus a little extra–he’s back to normal.

Not that he’ll ever be anything like normal ever again.

Okay then. This new, bizarre-type normal.

“We need a challenge,” Bucky complains. “These are good, scattered through the trees and all, but it’s still pretty much the same every day. We need–”

Clint clamps a hand over Bucky’s mouth. “Don’t you dare invite trouble! We need no challenges here. Attempting to fly and learning how to cook, those are the biggest challenges I need, thanks.” That and figuring out how to hold onto you, he doesn’t say.

Bucky licks the palm covering his mouth. Clint shrieks, wipes his palm on Bucky’s shirt, and attempts to throw Bucky to the ground. Soon it’s an all-out sparring match, and Clint learns that having wings gives him advantages that hadn’t occurred to him. The first time Bucky tries to throw him he gives his wings a hard flap and rights himself, throwing Bucky off balance. He can also use his wings to buffet Bucky, although that’s a bit tricky, since he has to be careful about any trailing feathers getting stepped on. The worst, though, is when they’re in what seems like a stalemate and Bucky, grinning wickedly, thrusts a free hand into Clint’s feathers.

Clint’s body reacts instantly, his nerves sing, his every atom strains towards Bucky. “Foul!” Clint croaks when he finds his voice. “No one else could do that to me, that’s one hundred percent cheating.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, darlin’,” Bucky drawls, kissing the tip of Clint’s nose. “You’re just mad ‘cause I won.”

“Cheated,” Clint protests, but weakly. Bucky’s still stroking his feathers, and he just wants to be close. He nuzzles into Bucky’s neck, wrapping himself around his muscular frame. “‘m still mad,” he says. “But this is nice, so I’m just gonna cuddle for a bit. And rest.” He yawns. “The past few days...have been busy. I’ll be mad later, ‘kay?” With bits of sun shining through the tree limbs above them flickering across his wings, Bucky humming softly and running his fingers delicately along the edges of his feathers, Clint drifts off to sleep.

“Okay, you were right. This was a good idea.”

Clint grins. “You should just admit that all my ideas are good ones.”

“Funny, ‘cause I thought leaping from one rooftop to another, _in the rain_ , just to get pizza, was a bad idea.”

“You’re never going to stop reminding me of that, are you. Besides, pizza is _always_ a good idea.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Clint. You slipped on a plastic bag, hit your forehead hard on a ledge, and needed ten stitches.”

“Yeah, but I got the pizza. And I was hurt, so I got a ride home. Didn’t even have to walk in the rain.”

Bucky’s completely exasperated now, and it comes through in his voice. “Clint. You got a ride in an _ambulance_ and they took you straight to _medical_ where Nat yelled at you in Russian for _twenty minutes_.”

“Yeah, but I _got_ the _pizza_.” Clint grins, then leans forward to brush his lips across Bucky’s.

“You’re impossible,” Bucky grumbles.

“Yep.”

“And you sound way too proud of that.”

“Aw, come on. You love it.”

Their faces are so close Clint can actually feel when Bucky breaks, when his grumpy face cracks and his smile shines through. “Impossible,” he says again, but this time the word is overflowing with affection.

They’re in the meadow again, sprawled in the grass again, but this time the sky is an inky black instead of clear blue. It’s one of Clint’s favorite things about coming home, being able to see the stars. When he’s in the City he has to constantly remind himself that the stars are still there, that just because he can’t see them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Feels like a lot of things in his life, actually, when he thinks about it. Which he tries not to.

Clint is carefully–oh so carefully–on his back in the grass. He’s found he can lay on his back if he’s thoughtful about how he gets there, and if he doesn’t try to move his wings too much once he’s down. He’s going to need Bucky’s help later, to get bits of grass and dirt and things out of his feathers. He knows now why birds generally aren’t solitary creatures; they help one another out with grooming those hard to reach feathers.

Bucky is next to him, in the vee of his body and his left arm, head pillowed on Clint’s shoulder. It’s a bit awkward at first, finding a comfortable position and making sure no feathers are crushed, but when they get there they relax into one another and look at the stars. Bucky rests his arm on Clint’s thigh, lazily tracing shapes on the worn fabric of his jeans.

“I’d never really seen the stars until I went to Europe,” Bucky says. “Most of us were city boys, you should have seen us: standin’ in the camp, rifles droopin’, mouths hangin’ open while we just stared upward.” He chuckles. “It’s a good thing we weren’t in enemy territory or we would have been toast. The country boys couldn’t figure out what we were gapin’ at.” He’s quiet for a few minutes, just looking. “It’s different, now. My eyes, they’re different. I still see the stars, but I see... _more_.” Clint waits, to see if Bucky’s going to elaborate, but this time the quiet seems to settle over Bucky like a blanket, holding him fast.

So they’re just... _there_. Together, under the twinkling, velvet sky. Clint listens to the treefrogs and crickets, to the sound of his heartbeat, to Bucky’s even, steady breathing.

“Orion’s my favorite,” Clint finally says, breaking the silence. “Depending on what legend you believe, he’s carrying a club or a bow. I think you can guess which version I prefer.”

“Can’t see Orion right now,” Bucky says. “Too early in the year.”

“True,” Clint says, slightly surprised. “Orion’s a fall and winter, we won’t be able to see him here for a few months yet. How did you know that?”

“I may be old, but I do still know how to _read_ ,” Bucky says, his voice so dry Clint thinks it might break.

Carefully Clint pulls Bucky a little closer, kisses the top of his head.

“I like the stars,” Bucky says, almost hesitantly. “When I was in Europe, those long, desperate nights, the stars were...companions. Friends, almost. And there was a kid who grew up on a farm, probably not too different from this place, who liked to tell me the legends behind the constellations.” He shrugs. “It was as good a way to pass the time as any.”

“Which is your favorite?” Clint asks. He’s genuinely curious to know which myth Bucky connects with. One of the heros? One of the punished?

“I’ve never actually seen it,” he says, and the wistfulness in Bucky’s voice tugs at something inside Clint. “It’s a southern constellation. Corvus. The, uh, the Crow.”

The Crow. Bucky’s favorite constellation is a _bird_. Clint wants to ask why but bites his tongue before the word can escape his lips; if Bucky wants to explain, he will.

“Do you know where Corvid sits in the sky?” Bucky asks. When Clint shakes his head, confident that Bucky will feel the shake and understand, unwilling somehow to break the soft stillness of the night. “It’s perched on the back of the Water Snake. Hydra.”

A shudder goes through Clint. He can’t help it.

“He’s not Hydra’s ally, Clint. He’s Hydra’s keeper. He despises Hydra, because it’s Hydra’s fault he was trapped in the sky to begin with. Well, no, it was his own fault, the Crow was a trickster. But the Water Snake didn’t play along so Apollo saw through the trick, and they were both punished. Trapped in the sky for all eternity.”

“I kinda like this Crow too,” Clint says, an easy smile on his face. “I think we might get along.” Putting his attention back onto the stars above them he asks, “You’ve never been to the southern hemisphere, then? I’ve been a few times, on missions. It’s odd, actually, looking up and seeing unfamiliar stars. At least the moon doesn’t change. Still looks plenty moony.”

Bucky goes stiff. “I have. But I didn’t really notice the stars. I was...otherwise engaged.”

Oh. Fuck. Shut up, Clint’s mouth. Clint’s brain, where were you on that one?

“Buck, I’m–”

But Bucky’s already getting to his feet. “I’m fine. But it’s late. I’m, I’m just tired, I think. Good night, Clint.” This last is said over his shoulder; he’s already ten or fifteen steps towards the house before Clint can even get to his feet.

“Night, Buck,” Clint says, barely more than a whisper. His wings droop.

The next morning everything is normal again. Or so it seems to Clint. Bucky’s waiting with coffee for Clint, then they cook together–pancakes and bacon with real maple syrup, and they only make a small mess of pancake batter on the counter this time–and after they eat they stand at the sink side by side while they wash the dishes.

But there’s no teasing, no kissing, and when the dishes are dry and back in the cupboards there’s an awkward pause. They get their boots and head out on the path to walk the perimeter as usual, but there’s none of the usual hand-holding or shoulder-bumping, and it’s so quiet they can hear the scampering of squirrels and rabbits in the underbrush. They come across a good sized log across the path, a dead branch that must have fallen since the morning before, but it’s no match for Bucky’s strength. They don’t even talk about it first, Bucky just picks it up and tosses it deeper into the woods and they keep walking.

When they get back to the barnyard Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets and looks around. “Firewood?” he asks. Clint’s trying to remember; he thinks it may have been the first word either of them has spoken all morning.

“Actually,” Clint says slowly, “how would you feel about a trip into town? We’re getting low on food, and we could let someone else cook our lunch for a change.” Bucky looks skeptical, so Clint goes on. “I can go alone if you’d like, I’d only be gone until late afternoon or so. But I have to go to the farm supply store for some grass seed and last time we were in there I saw that the ducks would be hatching this week…”

Bucky’s eyes light up at the idea of baby ducks–he’s been lamenting since they got here how sad it is that the chicken coop and duck pond are empty–and Clint’s insides just melt. He can’t take this anymore, this walking on eggshells, this will-they-or-won’t-they. Their early days at the Tower–early days?? It’s only been a couple of weeks!–seem like a fever dream compared to this sunshine and starlight life they’re somehow living now, but he remembers Bucky looking at him and murmuring words of love. Clint hadn’t answered, not then or since, not in words. But it’s never too late to say I love you. Is it?

“Buck. Bucky. I–” Clint’s mouth goes suddenly dry, but there’s a softening around Bucky’s eyes and it gives Clint every bit of courage he needs to blurt out the rest. “I love you Bucky.” It’s almost one word– _iloveyoubucky_ –but it doesn’t matter. Bucky’s got supersoldier hearing and, even without that, he’s got a heart that understands love.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Bucky says. “I can barely remember not loving you.” He runs the back of his hand–the metal one, Clint notes absently–down the side of Clint’s face and along his jaw, rasping on several days of stubble. “There was time before you, but that was the Asset, and he didn’t know anything at all about love. There was a time before _him_ , but as much as I want to believe that was me, I know that’s just hazy memories. Good memories, to be sure, but fragmented. Pieces that can never add up to a whole. In _this_ life, this life that feels true, there is you.”

Clint holds his breath. Is some small part of him waiting for the other shoe to drop? No. _No_ , he’s trying to figure out what to do when _there is no other shoe_.

Tangling fingers in Bucky’s hair, Clint presses their foreheads together. “Buck.” It’s barely a whisper, and it’s not at all what he wants to say; he wants to tell Bucky that since he’d felt Bucky carrying him to medical, since he’d felt Bucky’s fingers squeezing his even when he was mostly unconscious, since he’d listened to Bucky’s voice and even his breathing while he was strapped to that hospital bed...ever since all that he’s felt the solid weight, the _anchor_ , of Bucky in the chaos of his life. He wants to tell Bucky that it’s never been easy for him to trust, that too many people have hurt him in his life, but somehow it never crossed his mind to stay away from the Winter fucking Soldier. He wants to tell Bucky that even if he never figures out how to use these wings attached to his back, just holding Bucky’s hand makes him feel like he’s flying.

But all that’s too much, too many words for a guy like him, so he uses his eyes and the yearning in his voice when he says Bucky’s name, and then, when he can’t take it anymore, he crushes their lips together.

There is nothing chaste about this kiss. It is all tongues battling and teeth tugging on lower lips and near oxygen deprivation. They move together until Bucky’s back is pressed to the barn wall and before Clint can do anything Bucky’s _climbing_ him, wrapping around him, all arms and legs and _thighs_ and oh, this is new; they’re pressed together more tightly than they’ve ever been and the friction causes sparks behind Clint’s eyes. Suddenly his mind flashes to all the times he’s thought about having Bucky up against a wall and there’s a short circuit in his brain. Any thought of a drive into town disappears; there is only Bucky.

“Buck,” he says again, this time into the skin just behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky makes a whimpering noise and Clint’s wings suddenly snap open behind him, raised slightly, almost protectively.

Clint pulls back; not away, just enough to look into Bucky’s eyes. “Don’t stop,” Bucky says. “Please.” His voice is raw and vulnerable and Clint wants to spend his whole life making Bucky feel safe, and whole, and loved.

“Never,” Clint says, kissing his right cheek. “Not ever.” He kisses the other cheek. “Not until you tell me to.” He brushes a soft, barely-there kiss across Bucky’s lips. “I’m yours, Bucky. Just yours.”

It’s like someone flips a switch; one moment Bucky is wrapped around him, loving him, and the next he’s pushing Clint away, saying “no” and “stop” and covering his face with his hands.

Clint backs away, hands in the air, even though his every instinct screams for him to comfort Bucky. His wings droop, tips dragging in the dust of the barnyard.

“Buck. Bucky. Baby. What happened? Please. I–” And now Clint realizes his face is wet; he must be crying.

Of course he’s crying. Bucky just–

“I don’t understand,” he says. Pleads. There has to be a way to fix this. You don’t confess love and then break up.

Do you?

Bucky drops his hands and looks at Clint, through the empty space between them. His eyes are wet too.

“I just can’t,” he says. “It’s better if I just go now, I think. I thought I could handle it, having you for now and letting you go later when you were done with me, ready to leave the Avengers for a new kind of life. But I can’t, it already hurts too much, I just keep thinking about saying goodb–”

At first it doesn’t make sense, this speech of Bucky’s. And then it makes too much sense. And then Clint has to laugh, because it’s better than crying or screaming.

“Bucky!” Clint nearly shouts, trying to be appropriately serious but knowing the grin is showing in his eyes. “Buck, this is all my fault. Remember when I said ‘speaking of golden retrievers’ and you told me we weren’t, because I hadn’t actually said it out loud?” Bucky nods, slowly, and Clint sees the smallest glimmer of hope in his eyes. He’ll take it. “That must have been what happened when we were talking about the farm. I was all dazed and happy, sprawled in the sun, and I was thinking about how well you fit here with me, how happy it made me when you learned to go barefoot so fast, how much I enjoy watching you split firewood, how perfect it would be to settle down here with you, to build a life here with you. I–Buck, I thought I was _saying_ all that. Out loud. To you.” Clint takes a breath, tries to calm his galloping heart. “Look. No matter what I said or didn’t say–and honestly, I don’t have any idea which is which–here’s the most important part. Home is with _you_ , Bucky Barnes. This farm, New York, a colony on the moon, wherever. Anywhere I’m with you is home.”

Bucky’s guarded, impassive face remains, but the spark of hope has maybe brightened. Maybe. “You mean that?” he says, steady and even, like he’s asking if he could please have the salt shaker from the other end of the table.

“I warned you. I’m a _disaster_. I believe my exact words were, ‘I’ve always been a menace.’” He smiles a shaky–but honest–smile. “Bucky. I mean every word. And–” He blushes a little, thinking again how he’s not good at words, but wanting to try. Because Bucky deserves his best efforts. “I can’t promise forever, ‘cause no one can promise that. But I can promise to keep tryin’ as long as you’ll have me. I can promise to always have your back. I can promise to forgive you even when you can’t forgive yourself. I can promise to be your anchor when you need one, and to hold on to you when I’m the one who’s lost.”

One corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches, ever so slightly. “Been workin’ on that long?”

“Well not that _exactly_ , but I’ve been going over some of this–” And then Clint realizes that Bucky is actually _teasing_ him, and his heart lifts. He feels so light, he’s sure he could...no. He’s got to get rid of these inner monologue references to flying, they really don’t work anymore.

Snapping out of this tangent, Clint looks up. Hesitant. “Bucky?”

And then Bucky smiles, and Clint doesn’t care how it sounds. That smile is truly the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his whole life.

Clint’s not sure what happens next, but apparently Bucky knows, because before Clint can take a breath Bucky launches himself at Clint, latching on like before, and it’s only a steadying snap of Clint’s wings that keeps them both from tumbling to the ground. Bucky’s nearly frantic–nipping at Clint’s ears, tugging at Clint’s hair. When he threads the fingers of one hand–this time it’s the flesh one, Clint notices vaguely–through the soft feathers at the base of his wings Clint nearly whites out. He’s so far gone right now, so far beyond in love with James Buchanan Barnes. And it’s more than love; he’s also full of pleasure and overwhelmed with a desire so intense that Bucky could ask him for the moon and he’d just ask what phase he wanted and take off immediately.

“Now,” Bucky growls. “Fuck me _now_ , sweetheart. Push me up against that barn wall and–”

“But I thought–” (Why is he _arguing_? Get it together, Clint’s mouth.)

“ _Now_.”

Clint is helpless. The low timbre in Bucky’s voice turns his insides into molten lava and when he’s got Bucky against the barn–when did that happen?–he’s so hard it almost hurts. No, it _does_ hurt, but it’s the most exquisite pain he’s ever felt, and he holds onto it; without the pain to keep him rooted in reality surely he’d slide into madness. Isn’t that what this is? Hysteria? A delirium dream?

“No, doll. This is you,” he runs a hand down the edge of Clint’s wing, making him shiver, “and me,” he grinds against Clint, his erection pushing into Clint’s stomach, “and we are very, _very_ real. I promise.”

Clint, dazed and aroused and completely high on Bucky Barnes, says, “I actually said that out loud? I thought it was all in my head.”

Laughing–oh that laugh; it’s more than half growl, it does things to Clint–Bucky says, “If you could keep up with what you only think and what you say out loud everything would be a lot easier. For both of us. We could have done this ages ago.”

The sound that comes from Clint’s mouth is almost a mewl, and Bucky, chuckling again, scrubs his hands through Clint’s hair, tugging until Clint is looking up at him. “Come on, kitten. Show me what you’ve got.”

Clint’s wings unfurl, the snap echoing against the wall of the barn, and Clint uses the extra momentum to push himself harder into Bucky, seeking the friction he craves, he _needs_. But Bucky’s up too high, legs wrapped around the edge of his ribcage, teasing. “Buck,” he pants, his cheek resting against Bucky’s chest. The heartbeat grounds him along with the pain. Now he has two anchor-points.

“ _Buck_ ,” he says again, with more intensity. “You’re the one who said _now_.”

“Yes,” Bucky murmurs into his hair. “I think now is good.” And he reaches one hand down between them to unfasten his pants.

“Wait.”

(Wait, _what_? Clint’s mouth, what are you doing? We don’t want to _wait_ , we want to–)

Bucky doesn’t move but somehow he seems to shrink in Clint’s arms. Then he says, soft and unsure, “You don’t want to?”

“Oh, Buck, you have no idea. Yes, _yes_ I want to. A thousand times yes. But...not like this. I don’t have any lube and I don’t want you to get splinters and–”

Bucky’s laugh covers over his words. “Oh my god, Clint, you’re such a romantic. I had no idea.” He’s teasing, but the edges are soft instead of sharp, and Clint’s blush is barely covering his urge to laugh along with Bucky.

“Bucky,” he pleads, “Can we…?” He glances over his shoulder towards the house, then back at Bucky. “Now?” he adds, and even he has to grin at the desperate tone in his voice.

“Yes,” Bucky says. Then, curling himself into Clint so his lips are just brushing Clint’s ear, he growls “Now,” again.

That sets Clint off, he turns and starts running, Bucky still wrapped around him. Bucky laughs and holds on. “You know I’m the one with super strength, right? _I_ should be carryin’ _you_ , not the other way around.”

“No time.” (You got it this time, Clint’s mouth.)

“Awfully bumpy ride,” Bucky drawls. “Hope you can give me a smoother ride later.”

He can’t take this anymore, he’s going to fucking explode.

No, he’s going to explode from _not fucking_. 

He wills his legs to move faster, but there’s a shift inside him and his legs are still moving but they’re suddenly irrelevant.

Because he’s flying.

He’s actually _flying_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, _please_ don't kill me for this ending. (it's actually pherryt's fault, she's the one who found the, uh, _perfect_ place to split this behemoth of a chapter! 😉) If it makes you feel any better, there is very little to do on chapter 8 before it goes up, just a little polishing. It should be up tomorrow!
> 
> And...I'm done trying to guess how long/how many chapters this is going to be. I originally thought it would be somewhere between 10-15k words. Tonight I topped 30k. It has officially gotten away from me. I'm just following the muse!!!
> 
> Lira
> 
> p.s. The constellations mentioned are all REAL. And the Crow really does sit on the back of the Water Snake. How cool is that??!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the rating ABSOLUTELY goes up to Explicit in this chapter. You have been warned. 😉

Clint can’t believe it. It’s...this isn’t really happening, is it? But the ground is getting farther away and the air is tearing at his face, so it must be happening. How long has he been trying to do this? Not this exactly–he’d never intended to have a passenger on his first flight. But it’s like they’d all been trying to tell him: stop _thinking_ so much. And here he is. Actually _flying_.

Bucky’s grip tightens, but Clint doesn’t sense any fear, only trust. “Clint!” Bucky shouts. “You’re–”

“I know!” Clint yells back. The sound of the air rushing past them, being slammed out of the way by every downthrust of Clint’s wings, is much louder than Clint had imagined.

“How–”

“I have no idea!”

They’re both laughing, a loud, gleeful sound. It’s thrilling, this shooting through the air. It’s not at all like flying with Tony or Sam. It’s wild, more like how going over a waterfall compares to canoeing on a calm lake. He’ll probably learn to properly glide and wheel eventually, but right now he’s got a destination in mind, so he’s pushing his wings as hard as he can.

His destination. The house. The farmhouse. Which is not really all that far from the barn…

“Bucky!” There’s panic rising in his voice. “I don’t know how to land! Fuck! Bucky!”

“Yeah, that’s the plan, doll.” Bucky says dryly. Then, in a more soothing voice he says, “Yes, you do. You landed perfectly when you jumped out the loft doors last week. And besides, you didn’t know how to fly two minutes ago and you seem to be doing alright with that.”

Clint thinks about it for a fraction of a second, and Bucky’s right. Instinct takes over; Clint banks to the left, slowing their flight, and then he easily lands just in front of the porch.

Clint tries to put Bucky on his feet but Bucky doesn’t relax his grip. When Clint makes a questioning sort of hum Bucky says, “I thought you were taking me to bed?”

For a minute there he’d been lost in flight, the ecstasy, the freedom.

But he can fly anytime. It’s not like the wings are going anywhere. Right now he’s got a sexy supersoldier wrapped around him, begging to be fucked. How could he possibly even think about anything else?

How could flying come close to Bucky spread out and going to pieces underneath him?

Opening the back door has never seemed so complicated, the hallway to his bedroom so long. His wings, normally tucked to his back when he’s walking indoors, seem to have a mind of their own, snapping open every time Bucky shifts against him, tormenting him with the feel of his arousal, and he knocks over a stool and a lamp before they make it to the bedroom door. He barely notices, and cares even less. He can’t get the door open though, Bucky’s fingers in his feathers are too much of a distraction. He’s standing there, somewhat lost, actually considering kicking the damn thing down, when Bucky realizes what’s going on. He reaches back and twists the knob–oh yeah, that’s how those work–and then they’re inside and tumbling onto the bed.

Clint screeches; he’d backed into the bed and gone down first, Bucky on top of him, and hadn’t been ready for it. He’s got rumpled feathers and bent feathers and a few broken feathers, and while it’s not exactly painful it’s far too irritating to just ignore. He manages to sit up, Bucky on his side next to him, and tries to reach behind himself to put to rights as much as he can. Shivers and twitches keep running through the wings; he’s reminded suddenly of the robins he and Barney used to watch from the tree in the front yard; they’d puff out all their feathers and then smooth them down, then start all over again. They’d never known why, but it had been funny to watch.

“Take off your clothes,” says Bucky, breaking into his thoughts.

Clint’s head snaps up at that. “What?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches, then he says again, slowly, “Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”

Clint’s mind goes blank for what could be a moment or an hour. He’s finally able to make a noise, “Uh–” and then he’s scrambling to do what Bucky says, because why wouldn’t he? He’s got his shirt off and his jeans pushed down and is struggling to get his boots off with his jeans pulled half over them–should have taken the boots off first, way to go, Clint’s brain–before he realizes Bucky’s just sitting on the bed, watching him. He stops, unsure, but Bucky smiles and motions for him to continue.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get naked soon enough,” he says, and Clint’s brain threatens to short out again at just the mere thought. “Just let me enjoy the view for a bit.” He winks.

Alright. It relaxes Clint–just a little–to know that Bucky is looking at him, that Bucky _wants_ to look at him. He still can’t figure out exactly how to remove his socks, but after three tries he gets both of them off. He glances at Bucky, then asks, “Boxers too?”

Voice so dry it nearly cracks in half, Bucky says, “Yeah, I think maybe we can leave Tony out of our bed this time, don’t you?”

Horrified, Clint looks down to see he is indeed wearing his Iron Man boxers. He can feel the heat rising to his face, and he knows he must be an interesting shade of pink. “I–” he starts, but Bucky interrupts with a bark of laughter.

Clint laughs with him, though his face remains hot with embarrassment. “I’m just glad it wasn’t Stevie. I don’t think I could have coped.”

Face heating even more, Clint mutters, “Don’t look in my top drawer.”

Bucky’s laughing intensifies, and Clint decides it’s time to bury his face in his hands.

“No,” Bucky says, kneeling in front of him. “No.” He takes Clint’s wrists and pulls his hands away, gently, so they can look into each other’s eyes. “No hiding, okay? We’ll just be who we are.”

Still pink but grinning fiercely, Clint says, “Two idiots in love?”

Bucky kisses Clint’s left palm, then his right. Then, breaking the moment, he surges upward and kisses Clint’s nose. “I think that’s a valid assessment,” he drawls.

Clint laughs and gives Bucky a playful shove, then whines when he tries to pull Bucky back only to have Bucky slip out of his grasp. “Nope,” Bucky says. “You’ve still got clothes on.”

With no hesitation Clint hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his (Iron Man! Ugh, he can’t believe he’s wearing Iron Man!) boxers and pushes them to the floor. He doesn’t break eye contact with Bucky as he steps out of them, kicking them unceremoniously under the bed. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’re too good for a hamper?” he says.

Clint puts his hands on his hips, putting himself fully on display. “Sometimes there are more important things than hampers. Like _now_.”

Bucky looks him up and down and Clint shivers under his gaze. “Mmm.” The humming sound goes right to Clint’s dick which, already standing at attention, twitches. Bucky chuckles, low and heated. “Eager, are we?”

“Buck, you have no id–” Clint starts, but at the look on Bucky’s face he changes direction. “Of course you do, you’re just as ready for this as I am so won’t you _please_ take your clothes off too before I lose my fucking mind?” His voice gets higher and louder as he goes and by the end he’s practically squeaking.

Stepping close but not touching, Bucky says, “Patience,” and just that one word makes Clint want to scream. But he wants Bucky, would wait for Bucky forever, so he’ll find a way. Somehow.

“Lie down on the bed,” Bucky says, and even as Clint says, “Who put you in charge?” he’s scrambling to obey, trying to figure out how to make his wings lay flat so he can get onto his back.

“On your stomach, doll,” Bucky says. Clint flashes a confused look, hesitates. “Trust me?” Bucky asks, and of course Clint does. “Just relax,” Bucky murmurs as Clint settles into a comfortable position. “We’ve got time.” He’s got his eyes closed, but he feels the dip of the mattress when Bucky sits on the bed beside him, careful to avoid his wings. He’s climbing around on the bed doing who knows what when he mutters, “Might as well be comfortable.” There’s the distinctive sound of a zipper, the rustle of several kinds of fabric, and Clint steals a glance over his shoulder to see that Bucky’s stripped down to just his boxers. (Black, some kind of soft or silky material Clint desperately wanted to touch. _Not_ Avengers merch.) It’s a good look on him. A _very_ good look. And then Bucky is straddling his hips, knees tucked carefully under his wings, and Clint pretty much stops thinking entirely.

“I’m not in charge,” Bucky says, his voice soft, his tone conversational.

Clint makes a noise that may have possibly indicated that he didn’t understand. He doesn’t, at the moment, have the ability to create actual words.

Bucky chuckles. “You asked who put me in charge. I’m not, not really. I saw you needed something and knew you wouldn’t ask for it so decided to just do it for you. And it meant being a little bossy, because you weren’t exactly thinking straight.”

“But I’m _not_ straight.” When only silence greets this remark, Clint mutters, “You’re rolling your eyes, aren’t you? I can practically hear it. What’s the use of being the bad joke guy if no one ever laughs?” under his breath. Bucky makes a noise that could _almost_ be considered a laugh. Louder and more clearly Clint says, “What are you doing, then? Sitting on me until I get some sleep or something? Because I can tell you right now, Bucky, there’s no way I’m sleeping with you si–ooohhhh.”

Clint’s words devolve into a long, low moan as Bucky’s fingers begin to run methodically through his feathers. “Buck,” he says when he finally finds the ability to speak again. “Baby, that’s _incredible_. I– _ahh_ –I wish I could explain what it’s like. It’s almost like you’re touching me everywhere, all at once.”

“Everywhere?” Bucky asks, an amused tone to his voice.

Clint wishes he could glare, but he’s too relaxed. He settles for snark. “Fucking tease.”

Bucky chuckles, then leans over Clint until his face is buried in the soft feathers between his wings. He nuzzles Clint, kissing him softly a few times, then sits back up to resume his grooming. “All in good time, sweetheart. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He feels like puddle, a puddle of Clint, but also like every cell, every atom, every tiny micro-subatomic (Scott probably has a better name for this) bit of his body is singing. It’s a heady feeling. And as much as he wants to move on to the next activity of the day (he’s vigorously not even thinking the words because he knows he won’t be able to contain himself) he also doesn’t want this to end.

There’s a scent in the air, vaguely citrus mixed with something floral. “What’s that?” Clint asks. He doesn’t expect Bucky to answer; his face is buried in the side of a pillow and his words came out sounding more like groans than words. But somehow Bucky understood, or he just guessed well. “I, uh, talked to Wanda.” There’s an elevated heat from Bucky, and Clint knows he must be embarrassed again. “I noticed that the skin on your wings, the skin beneath your feathers, has been getting dry. I don’t know if it’s all the sun, or the dust, or too many showers–”

“Hey, the showers feel good! My back gets sore, all those new muscles and stuff.”

“–but she talked to Dr. Case and Strange, and together they figured out something that might help. It’s a very mild massage oil, made with coconut oil, bergamot, and lavender. It’s light, so it won’t drag down your feathers, but it should ease the dryness of your skin. And maybe keep some of the dust off your feathers, too.” He pauses, unsure. “I probably should have asked first. I just wanted to surprise you.”

Twisting just enough that he can see Bucky’s face, Clint smiles. “It feels fantastic, Buck. Please don’t stop.”

Bucky’s hair falls in front of his face, but not before Clint sees the smile flitting across his face. Bucky leans forward, as if he’s going to kiss Clint, but Clint pulls back.

“I want that kiss, Bucky. I want it so bad I won’t be able to stop. And if I can’t stop that flight feather on the far edge of my left wing is going to drive me insane the whole time I’m kissing you. And let me tell you, Buck, when I’m kissing you I really don’t want to be thinking about a fucking feather.” Clint winks. (But he’s absolutely serious about that feather. It’s hanging by a thread, it’s like a rusty nail in his brain.)

Instead of kissing him, Bucky pushes Clint back down onto the bed and kisses the soft, downy feathers between his wings again. “Urrrhhhh.” Bucky chuckles at the nonsensical noises coming from Clint. Clint tries to retort but Bucky’s fingers go to work again, grooming and massaging and driving Clint out of his fucking mind, and instead of spouting a well thought out comeback he just moans.

“Very articulate,” Bucky says.

Clint growls.

Easing his fingers through the edge of Clint’s left wing, Bucky asks, “Is this the offending feather?” as he gently plucks one from its place.

“Lurs,” Clint says, briefly pointing his thumb toward the ceiling.

Chuckling again, Bucky says, “You’re welcome.”

“Rah ooh.”

Bucky’s hands don’t miss anything; Clint’s wings are groomed and oiled, and even the muscles around his wings are massaged. He hadn’t realized how much they ached until now. “Uuuuurrrrrr.” What he wants to say is please don’t stop, don’t ever stop that’s the best thing I’ve ever felt, but he supposes he should be happy he can manage to move air from his lungs at all.

Fingers slide up his neck and into his hair and Bucky shifts; suddenly Clint is all too aware that he’s naked on the bed with Bucky nearly naked and pressed against him from behind. Just like that he’s rock hard again, his dick painfully trapped between his body and the bed.

“Buck,” he moans, this time forcing himself to actually form the words. “I can’t–I don’t think–not–” He’s almost sobbing with the ache, the desperate need for Bucky. “Oh Buck, baby, _please–_ ”

Somehow Bucky must understand his gibberish, because within a blink they’ve switched places, though slightly rearranged; Bucky’s on his back on the bed looking up at Clint, who’s on his hands and knees, gazing back and feeling somewhat bewildered. “How’d you do that?” he starts to ask, but he only gets the first word out before he realizes that’s not at all what he wants to be talking about right now. Actually he doesn’t want to be talking about _anything_ right now. He wants _Bucky_. Just Bucky.

And Bucky is there, right exactly there, waiting for him.

Ready for him.

He’s glad they’re in his room because he doesn’t have to ask, he just leans on one elbow and reaches into the drawer of the bedside table. 

“Always prepared,” he says with a wink, pulling out the lube.

“Somehow I doubt you were a Boy Scout,” Bucky says, but there’s a hitch in his voice when he sees the tube in Clint’s hand.

“I won’t hurt you, baby,” he says, voice low, his lips brushing Bucky’s earlobe. He feels a shiver go through Bucky’s body at the contact, even though their skin is touching in a hundred other places.

Bucky swallows, and Clint can feel that he’s warring between desire and nerves. It’s one thing to say ‘Come fuck me now’ and another to be right here, in the moment. “Hey,” Clint says, holding himself above Bucky so they can see into each other’s eyes. “I mean it, baby. I won’t hurt you.”

Eye’s glinting, Bucky pulls Clint into an almost fierce kiss. The fingertips of one hand trace the edges of Clint’s wing while their lips are pressed together and Clint’s brain stops functioning for several seconds. Bucky’s grinning when they stop to catch their breath. “I trust you, sweetheart. I’m not worried. It’s just a bit of…” His eyes dart from side to side, as if the words he’s looking for are flying around the room somewhere. “It’s just nervous anticipation. It’s been a long time. A, uh, _very_ long time.”

And then it clicks in Clint’s brain. Not much time for sex when you’re a brainwashed assassin.

Fuck, that _is_ a long time.

“Clint. _Clint_.”

Clint blinks; Bucky’s looking at him, a worried look on his face.

“Don’t let it go to your head, okay? Nothin’ to ruffle your feathers about.” The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches, and his eyes actually sparkle with the laughter he’s holding back. 

So Clint cuts him a break. “Go ahead,” he says, rolling his eyes, and Bucky whoops with laughter. Clint’s laughing too, and then they’re both smiling genuine smiles, their faces close together, noses almost touching. And suddenly Clint realizes that this is the happiest he’s ever been. Laughing, not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday or anything but this moment. Being together, being close, with someone he loves.

With Bucky.

So the laughter gradually trickles off and they just look at each other, and Clint knows Bucky’s feeling it too, the perfection of the moment. (Wow, Clint’s brain. You get really sappy sometimes, d’ya know that?) All the pressure is gone, and all that’s left is here. Now. There is Clint, and there is Bucky, and there is an endless sea of time.

“Bucky,” Clint says, and there’s an edge to his voice now.

“Yeah.” Bucky rasps. “Yeah. Now, Clint. _Please_.”

“So needy,” Clint teases. But he doesn’t make Bucky wait. Not really. He’s gonna go slow, though. Make it last. Make it _good_. Bucky deserves every good thing, and Clint wants to give it all to him.

He kisses Bucky first, tangling fingers in hair already fanned out across the pillow. He could kiss Bucky for hours–has done, on occasion. But after less than a minute Bucky makes an almost painful sort of whimper into Clint’s mouth, and Clint’s lips curve into a smile against Bucky’s. “So, so needy,” he murmurs. Bucky’s hips jerk upwards, searching for friction, and Clint is suddenly reminded that Bucky’s still wearing his boxers. Something that will have to be remedied. And soon.

Clint makes a trail of kisses along the rough curve of Bucky’s jaw then sucks a bruise on the sensitive point behind his ear. Bucky’s initial gasp devolves into a drawn-out moan, fingers digging into Clint’s biceps. Clint takes this as a sign he should leave more marks on Bucky’s skin. He knows they won’t last, not with Bucky’s supersoldier healing, but he’s going to enjoy seeing Bucky all marked up while he can. “Look at you,” he murmurs between one bruise and the next. “Makes you look like you’re mine.”

“All yours, darlin’,” Bucky pants. He suddenly jerks his hands away from Clint’s arms, alarm on his face. “I didn’t mean–” He looks at Clint’s arms, where fingermarks are starting to form.

Clint brushes his lips across Bucky’s again, just enough to get his attention. “You weren’t hurting me. You’re strong, I know, but I also know my limits. I’ll tell you if it’s too much, alright?” Bucky nods. “Besides,” Clint says with a wink, “I may be pretty as a daisy, but I’m no fragile fucking flower. You’re not gonna break me, Buck.”

Reassured, Bucky puts his hands back on Clint, thought not in the same place; one hand he wraps around Clint’s head, carding at his hair, and the other he slips over Clint’s shoulder to tease at the feathers he can reach. Clint moans into Bucky’s skin.

“You know that’s not playing fair,” Clint almost whines. “I can’t...christ, Buck, I can’t even think when you do that.”

The smile is evident in Bucky’s voice. “Who says we’re playin’ fair? Besides, you’re the one who started with the teasin’. By the time you get me naked I’m gonna have a bicentennial.”

_Just for that,_ Clint thinks, and drags his teeth across one of Bucky’s nipples; Bucky sucks in air and clenches the fist in Clint’s hair. Clint grins, then laves the tender flesh with his tongue and is rewarded with a moan that is almost a growl. He’ll take that.

Soon he’s leaving wet kisses down Bucky’s stomach and both of Bucky’s hands are in his hair, tugging on his head and scratching at his scalp and attempting to subtly push his head lower. Clint smiles into Bucky’s skin, feels muscles go taut at what must be a ticklish sensation. (Make a note of that, Clint’s brain.) The sounds coming from Bucky’s mouth should be illegal; his babbles of begging for more are interspersed with mewls and near sobs of _please_ and _now_ and _Clint_. 

When Clint reaches the waistband of Bucky’s boxers and then moves down and kisses the inside of his thigh Bucky actually whimpers. 

“I’m only teasing, baby,” he says, and mouths at Bucky’s dick through the silky material of his boxers. The response is immediate and intense; Bucky’s hips snap upward, and if Clint hadn’t been ready for exactly that he thinks he might have been knocked out by the intensity of the thrust. Instead he just mouths at Bucky again, the material clinging to Bucky, creating a wet, barely there barrier between them. Bucky keens.

Clint desperately wants to keep going like this, to see how far he can take Bucky to oblivion, but he knows he himself can’t take much more. He’s already afraid he’s going to last about two seconds once he gets inside of Bucky, if even that; if he keeps up this slow teasing much longer he’s going to come just from the brush of Bucky’s thigh against his dick and he’ll have to hide under a pillow until…

No. He’s not some horny teenager. He can get control of himself. (Yes, he absolutely can. Be quiet, Clint’s brain. Stop _laughing_.)

Still mouthing at Bucky through the now sodden material Clint slides his hands up Bucky’s thighs, hooks his fingers in the waistband of Bucky’s boxers, and slides them down his legs. Bucky tries to raise himself up, to help, but he’s too lost, too dazed. But Clint’s strong and clever and manages to get them off on his own, then smiles into Bucky’s skin.

Bucky’s skin. Under his hands. His mouth. He props himself up enough to look into Bucky’s eyes, looking back at him with an almost awed expression. He probably looks rather awed himself.

“You’re perfect,” Clint says.

Bucky looks away, his flesh hand unconsciously going to his scarred shoulder.

“Hey. No hiding, remember? We all have things about ourselves we don’t like much.” He touches one of his bright purple aids, then smiles a sad sort of smile. “But it all makes us who we are.” He takes Bucky’s metal hand and puts the palm against the side of his face, leaning into it. “This arm. It came from darkness, but you make it beautiful, Buck. I mean it–you’re perfect.”

Bucky just looks at him, silently searching for something. Clint doesn’t know if he finds it, but after a minute or so he says, “Kiss me, sweetheart.”

Clint turns his head slightly and kisses Bucky’s metal palm. Exasperated, Bucky says, “That’s not–”

“I know,” Clint says, and he’s there, his lips on Bucky’s, reassuring him, loving him. Their bodies press together, and there’s so much _skin_. Without conscious thought on Clint’s part his wings fly open behind him, and Bucky’s eyes widen.

“ _Buck_.” It’s Clint’s time to keen, to moan, to beg. “I can’t wait. I have to–”

“Stop talking,” Bucky says, and that demanding, do what I say tone is back in his voice. Clint’s mouth snaps closed. “Here,” he says, pressing something into Clint’s hand. Oh. It’s the lube. He’d lost track of it at some point; he’s had a lot on his mind. But he knows what to do with it.

“Sorry it’s cold,” he says, sheepish, as he rubs the tip of a well-lubed finger around Bucky’s hole and, ever so slowly, eases it in. Bucky tenses around the intrusion but makes happy mewling noises and almost immediately begs for more. Kissing the inside of Bucky’s thigh, Clint murmurs, “Slow, baby. Gonna go slow. Don't wanna hurt you.” He eases his finger in and out, listening to Bucky’s breath hitch and ease, feeling him slowly relax, enjoying the unintelligible sounds coming from Bucky’s mouth.

When he thinks Bucky’s relaxed enough he adds more lube and another finger. “Fuck! It’s enough, it’s enough, just fuck me now, Clint, I can’t take it anymore, please, please…” He babbles on and on, his fingers tugging on Clint’s hair, digging into Clint’s scalp. But Clint is steady, relentless, going slow and easy even though he himself is about to burst. After a bit he adds a third finger and Bucky’s hips jerk and he babbles louder, more sounds than words now, although Clint can occasionally make out a “fuck” or a “please”. He sucks bruises onto the insides of Bucky’s thighs, on his jutting hips, imparting blessings onto the skin of his beloved.

With no warning he pulls out and Bucky nearly sobs at the loss. “I’ve got you, baby,” Clint says, lining himself up. Bucky’s eyes are bright, pupils blown, the skin of his face and chest flushed red and coated with a sheen of sweat from their exertions thus far. His hands grasp at nothing until they find purchase on Clint’s thighs, digging in with want and need. Clint can feel the bruises forming, vaguely looks forward to seeing Bucky’s marks on him for the next few days.

Slowly, slowly, Clint buries himself in Bucky. He’s not sure if the needy, whimpering noise he hears is coming from him or from Bucky or from both of them, but it doesn’t seem to matter. When he’s all the way in, as deep as he can go, he pauses, just feeling Bucky all around him.

“ _Move_ ,” Bucky says, insists, demands.

“Can’t.” Clint is frozen above Bucky, looking down at him, overwhelmed and overstimulated and he knows if he moves right now he’s going to fucking explode. But it’s too much to even say so many words, so he just says, “Can’t,” again, and then, “Wait,” through clenched teeth, and takes several slow, deep breaths to try to get himself under some kind of control. Bucky seems to understand; he holds himself perfectly still, gazing up at him with perfect, open trust. Clint feels another crack in his chest; he doesn’t deserve this. He’s going to hold on and do his best to never let go; Bucky is a gift, a treasure, not something he could ever earn.

“O-kay,” Clint says, the word punching out of him in two breathy, staccato syllables. He swallows, then tries again, calmer. “Okay.” That sounds better. Less like an insane person, more like a person in love. He hopes.

Bucky’s smiling at him, reaching up to– _oh_ –to press his palm against Clint’s chest. Right against his heart. “Now?” This time he says it with a wink and a glint in his eyes; he’s teasing again. And it’s exactly what Clint needs. Slowly at first, but gaining momentum with every thrust, he pulls back and rolls his hips forward.

It’s...it’s like the first gulp of air when you’ve been trapped underwater. It’s like the crocuses and daffodils that poke up through the snow, bringing color to a world that’s been cold and dreary for far too long. It’s like the strike of a match in a dark room. It’s like that perfect shot, the one that lines up even though it’s impossible. (Clint’s brain: stop waxing poetic. This is sex, not masterpiece theatre.)

“ _Clint_ ,” Bucky groans. “Ah, fuck, yes. You don’t– _fuck!_ –mess around.” He’s still got a hand on Clint’s chest, but the other is digging into Clint’s thigh. Clint’s got fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair; his other hand is on Bucky’s hip, trying to pull him closer. Not that that’s at all possible at the moment.

He thrusts harder, wilder, almost out of control. But _Bucky_ , he wants Bucky to come first, wants the look in his eyes and the sounds he makes to be what pushes Clint over the edge. He reaches a hand between them, wraps it around Bucky’s cock, pumps it a few times. He whispers, “Come for me, baby,” and that, maybe even more than the touch, is all it takes. Bucky cries out, his metal hand letting go of Clint’s thigh to grasp at the sheets; Clint hears a tearing sound on the edge of his awareness but he’s so focused on Bucky–the flush on his skin, the bead of sweat trickling down the left side of his forehead, his pupils so blown there’s no color that Clint can make out, the almost smile hiding on his lips–that the sound barely registers.

“Clint,” Bucky whispers, and that sends Clint over the edge, his pleasure chasing after Bucky’s. Just a fraction of a second after his climax–or maybe it’s before, it’s hard to tell–Bucky reaches behind Clint and thrusts his fingers into Clint’s feathers.

His entire body is burning. White hot sparks from the tip of his toes to the purple-brushed ends of each feather to every rumpled blond hair on his head–he can feel them all. Vibrating.

Burning.

He’s never felt anything so intense in his life.

It takes longer to come down than usual, partly because Bucky’s still stroking his feathers, partly because, well, when you fly all the way to the stratosphere it’s gonna take a long time to land. It’s well over a minute before he realizes Bucky is talking to him, telling him how much he loves him, how beautiful he is, how good they are together. Clint can’t find any words of his own yet–he’s not sure he could make his tongue and teeth and lips work together even if he had some words to string into a sentence–so instead he closes his eyes and breathes. Bucky smells like summer sun and green grass, like barnyard dust and sweat. There’s a slight tang of metal, and the warm scent of the coffee he’d had after breakfast. And under it all is something new, something he’s never noticed before but recognizes immediately: the unmistakable, spicy scent of desire, coupled with the comforting scent of contentment.

Huh. The ability to smell weird– _impossible_ –things. Check.

And then he fully realizes where he is: face buried in Bucky’s neck, sprawled on top of him, completely boneless. “Oh, shit, Bucky, I’m sorry, you probably can’t even breathe–”

“Close your mouth, Clint,” says Bucky. The bossy Bucky.

Clint closes his mouth.

“I want you right where you are,” Bucky says. “Unless you’re uncomfortable. Then you should move, but please don’t move too far. I thought I was losing you, Clint. I want to keep you close.”

He considers for a moment, then rolls slightly to one side, just enough that some of his weight is on the bed, but his face is still buried in Bucky’s neck, and their bodies are still mostly intertwined. Bucky sighs, but the sound isn’t frustrated or annoyed, just an extra heavy breath. If anything he sounds relaxed, maybe more relaxed than Clint’s ever seen before. He lazily threads his fingers through Clint’s feathers, sending sparks through Clint’s body but somehow also pulling him relentlessly toward sleep.

“Think we can move enough to get a blanket, sweetheart?” Bucky murmurs. “Not that you aren’t a _lovely_ blanket, but you’re only covering about half of me.”

“I can fix that,” Clint says. He unfolds his wings, spreads them as wide as they’ll go, and then carefully tucks them around the both of them, wrapping them in a cocoon of feathers. “Best down comforter you’ll ever see.” He doesn’t even try to keep the smugness out of his voice.

Bucky snuggles in. “No arguments here. Highest quality blanket, this. Would definitely use again.”

Mock offended, Clint says, “Is that all I am to you? Cheap linens?”

With a snort, Bucky says, “Cheap? Do you have any idea how much coffee you go through in a day? Not to mention the cost to my sleep. I’m gonna be gettin’ up early every day for the rest of my life, just to be sure your coffee is ready.”

Clint chokes back a sob. _For the rest of my life_. He doesn’t make a sound but he can’t keep a few tears from escaping his eyes.

Aw, crying, no.

And since his face is against Bucky’s bare skin, he can’t hide the tears, either.

“Hey,” Bucky says, kissing the top of Clint’s head. “What’s this, darlin’?”

“‘For the rest of my life.’ That’s what you said.”

Bucky goes still, barely breathing. “I guess I did,” he finally says. Then, “That okay?”

Clint smiles into Bucky’s skin. “Those might be the best words I’ve ever heard.”

He can feel Bucky’s smile too–its brightness, its warmth. “Even better than ‘Coffee’s ready’?”

“Even better than that,” Clint says. Then he laughs, adding, “But it’s close.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. This is the end.
> 
> Well, okay, not the _end_. There's an epilogue coming, and a bonus scene that has been in my head for ages but just doesn't fit with the flow of the story...but this is the end of the _main_ story.
> 
> But don't be surprised if there are new stories in this 'verse. Because Clint the Avenging Angel (sorry, I can't help with the bad jokes, sometimes I AM CLINT) absolutely fascinates me and I doubt he's going to let go of me anytime soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Epilogue**

Clint is pulled out of sleep by Bucky’s hand on his wing; he’s groggily pushing feathers away from his face. (Clint never _means_ to cover Bucky’s face. Sometimes it just happens when they’re asleep.) When the bar of late afternoon sun from the bedroom window falls across Bucky’s face he flinches, pulling the wing back up over his face to hide. Clint just snuggles in closer, enjoying both the closeness and scent of Bucky and the warmth of sun on his feathers. Honestly, it’s near perfect. He’s a little hungry, and his… Huh. He has no idea what to call his new muscles. He’ll have to come up with something. Anyway, his back-wing-flight-shoulder muscles are a little sore, but it’s totally worth it. He buries his face in Bucky’s neck.

Bucky murmurs something. Clint can’t hear it–his aids are on the bedside table–but he can feel the rumble of Bucky’s chest. He pushes up until he’s propped on his elbow, then angles his face so he can see Bucky’s lips. (Don’t think about kissing, Clint’s brain. That’ll get all of us off track.) “I can’t hear you baby,” he says. “Again?”

“I said, we have to get out of bed sometime.”

“We do not!” Clint practically shouts it. He realizes he sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn’t care; he’s finally got Bucky in his bed, he’s finally got Bucky’s arms holding him close while he sleeps. He’s not going to quit now.

It’s only been, what, three days?

“Four,” Bucky says. “It’s been four days.”

Clint starts. “Did I say that out loud?”

Bucky chuckles. “I could see you counting, it was all over your face. Your adorable, freckley, face.”

Sighing, Clint rolls over and grabs his aids off the table; after he carefully puts them in he turns back to Bucky. “ _Why_ exactly do we have to get out of bed?”

“Four days, doll. Four days, and all we’ve done is fuck, fly, and...well, I can’t think of a word for sleep that starts with an F, but you get the idea.”

“Float off to dreamland?” Clint says, not at all helpfully. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“We take a few minutes to eat, maybe wash the sex or dust off our bodies, then we start the cycle all over again. I think maybe it’s time to rejoin the world.”

“What world? We’re all alone out here.” Clint’s aware he’s sounding more childish by the minute, but he doesn’t care all that much. Teasing Bucky’s much too fun. Besides, his brain is telling him it really is quite fun to be in bed with Bucky and he should stay here for as long as possible.

Clint leans in for a kiss but Bucky pulls his head back at the last second. Clint pouts.

“Natalia and Kate will be here in the morning. Don’t you think we should be able to feed them?”

“They can bring their own food.”

“We don’t have any food for Lucky, either.”

Clint hesitates, but then says, “I’m sure they can bring something for Lucky. Besides, he mostly eats pizza anyway, and we’ve got some of that. I saw it in the freezer last night.”

Bucky sighs.

“The coffee you had this morning was the last of it.”

Before Bucky finishes the sentence Clint’s springing out of bed, pulling Bucky with him. “Hurry up, Buck! Get dressed! We’ve got to get to town before the market closes! Do you think I can fly faster than you can drive the truck? Actually, do you think I can fly that far? We haven’t tested my endurance for distances yet…” He trails off, staring into the distance as he hastily pulls on his clothes. Bucky’s just standing there, giving him a look that’s half adoration and half glower. It’s one hundred percent sexy, though, and for a moment Clint’s caught up in the sight of Bucky, naked and gorgeous. They seem to be enraptured of each other.

Just as it should be.

When the quinjet, landed safely in the meadow, quiets its engines and opens its doors, Lucky’s the first one out. He bounds across the grass and leaps at Clint, barking and rolling in the warm, sunlit grass. Clint is already down onto his knees and buries his face in the dog’s fur–once he can get Lucky to be still enough for the attention. “Missed you too, boy,” Clint says. After a good face washing–Clint’s face, not Lucky’s–Lucky walks around him, examining him from head to foot. First he checks for injuries–why doesn everyone do that?–and then he snuffles at the new additions to his person. Clint flutters his wings a bit, spreading his scent so Lucky can get a good whiff, so Lucky can understand that these new things are strange but they are absolutely Clint. After a minute or two he flops down onto Clint’s lap, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. He’s been Lucky Approved.

Next comes Katie-Kate, a spring in her step and an eye for Bucky. After she looks him up and down she says, “You gonna take care of Clint? ‘Cause we both know he can’t take care of himself.”

“Hey!” Clint protests. “I’m right here, you know. You could at least wait to insult me until I’m out of earshot.”

“No, she’s right, doll,” Bucky says, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-grin. “The other day you couldn’t even get the bedroom door open.”

“That’s–I mean, that was– _Bucky_!” Clint feels the heat rise in his cheeks. He wants to hide, to bury his face in Lucky’s fur again, but instead turns to look up at Bucky. “You know that’s not fair,” he practically hisses.

Bucky leans down and ruffles his hair. Looking at Kate, he says, “We take care of each other. So far it’s a good system.”

Kate gives him a sideways hug. “Good. That’s the way it should be. Hope you don’t mind having a new little sister who’s a better shot than you.” While Bucky stands with his mouth open, a dumbfounded look on his face, she turns to Clint and says, “You should have told me about him sooner, you know. And I shouldn’t have learned about your wings from the news!”

“You were on that weird off the grid mission!”

She looks at him like he’s grown a second head to go along with his pair of wings. “I always find a way for you. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Funny thing. She’s absolutely right.

Before he can answer Nat calls out from the jet. “Got everything worked out, then?” She’s wearing a knowing smile.

In answer Clint leaps into the air, flies back and forth across the clearing, and lands lightly a few feet in front of her. “Wanna go for a ride?” Clint asks. “Bucky says it’s smoother than you’d expect.”

Her face unreadable as ever, she says, “Another time.” But there’s a glint in her eye that he recognizes, something no one else would ever notice. She’s excited to fly, she just doesn’t want to show it. Typical Nat. He grins.

“After sunset,” he tells her, slinging an arm over her shoulders. “You can stay all day, can’t you? No pressing business in New York? You’ll love flying in starlight.”

Nat gives a little “Hm,” which he takes to mean yes. He picks up the bag at their feet and pulls her towards the house. “This an overnight bag? You know there are plenty of empty beds available if you want to stay.”

“I can’t stay that long, the jet’s needed in New York. That’s a few things from Wanda–oils, some kind of special brush, some vitamins she thinks you should be taking. Things like that. She and Dr. Case have been doing a lot of interesting research. You’re a unique case, but apparently they’ve found some useful things.” She shrugs, almost imperceptibly. “Or they’re going to make your feathers fall out. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Clint’s feathers bristle at the idea of accidental molting. He smoothes them down; he trusts Wanda and the doctors, even Strange. And he’s grown rather fond of the massage oil Bucky’s been using on his wings. The thought of Bucky rubbing more oils into his feathers goes straight to his dick, but he has to push that thought aside. As much as he’d like to get his hands–and everything else–on Bucky right now, he’s got time. He can wait.

Lucky runs ahead of them, then back, then ahead again, excited to be on the farm, to see Clint, to get to his favorite sofa in the house. He even greets Bucky a few times, apparently accepting his person’s new person with ease. It warms Clint’s heart.

And then they are in the farmhouse, curling up on chairs and sofas and–in Bucky and Clint’s case–the new deep purple chaise lounge. Lucky tries to nose his way between Clint and Bucky and settles for sprawling across their legs.

“You seem to be settling in alright.” Nat’s eyes are scouring every inch of the place as she speaks; she’s been here a hundred times at least, but she still has to check for exit routes and possible incursion sites. Even though she knows the property is nearly as protected as the Tower.

Kate grins at the sight of the two boys cuddled up together, obviously happy for Clint. “Lookin’ good, Hawkguy. But I still say you’ve got your bow hung on the wrong side of the doorway.” She waves at the bow on the wall between the kitchen and the living room. Clint looks at Bucky with a ‘see what I have to put up with?’ kind of look. It’s an old argument.

“ _My_ bow is exactly where it belongs, Hawkeye. You can keep _yours_ wherever you’d like.”

Bucky looks back and forth between Kate and Nat and then at Clint, disbelieving. “They _do_ know we’re both highly skilled assassins, right?”

Clint shakes his head, mock sorrow on his face. “Doesn’t matter. To them we’re two helpless boys, in desperate need of care. We’re pretty much doomed.”

“Hmm.” Bucky looks thoughtful, winks so only Clint can see. “If they’re going to take care of everything, maybe we should just go back to bed...”

“Ew!” Kate shrieks, covering her eyes. “I’m totally happy for you two, but please keep your naked fun times to yourselves, okay?”

Nat just smirks in that knowing– _infuriating_ –way she has.

Clint tries to glare at her but ends up laughing instead, ruffling his feathers in the process. Lucky’s head snaps up; he jumps onto the floor and begins jumping and pawing at the feathers trailing on the floor. Clint knows it’ll get old fast–he won’t do anything intentionally, but Lucky’s paws could do damage to his feathers–but right now it’s pretty cute.

And then he looks at Bucky.

Bucky’s smiling at him, happiness in his eyes, love all over his face, and Clint can’t think of a better place to be than right here, surrounded by his perfect, mixed-up family. He suddenly remembers one of the things Bucky told him when he was mostly unconscious: _It’s bizarre, but we’re actually kind of good with bizarre._ Neither of them could have imagined then what was coming, but he’s so glad it did.

“Thanks for helping me through all this,” he murmurs into Bucky’s ear.

“Well I couldn’t leave you to figure it out on your own,” Bucky drawls back, his voice low. “You’d still be turning circles in your bedroom, trying to reach a broken feather like a puppy chasing its tail.”

Clint pouts. “So now everyone thinks I’m helpless.”

“Nah, just adorable.” He kisses Clint’s nose.

“ _Clint_ ,” Kate says, an almost whiny edge to her voice.

“Alright, alright,” Clint says, laughing and pushing Bucky away. “Come on, let’s go for a walk. I’ll bet Lucky could use a good run after being cooped up in the jet.” Lucky perks up at the word walk, then dashes to the door. Clint grins at Kate. “And I can show off my new tricks. Bucky and I set up some targets in the woods, care to have a go?”

“You’re on,” Kate says, grabbing her bow case from her pile of bags by the door. She lets Lucky out then follows him into the sunlit yard. Nat’s just a few steps behind, raising an eyebrow at Clint but leaving without a word. As soon as she’s gone Clint wraps his arms around Bucky.

“I love you,” he says, resting his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Me too,” Bucky says. Then, “We’d better go, or Kate’s gonna beat me up.”

Clint kisses him softly, then pulls him toward the door, grabbing his bow and quiver on the way.

“She’s...she’s not _really_ a better shot than me, is she?”

Clint just laughs.

This, right here, is perfection. _Absolute_ perfection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus artwork!!!
> 
> Waaaaay back in chapter two, when Clint was unconscious and listening to Bucky and Nat talk about what had happened to him, they talked about how at least he didn't have armor, "like an armadillo!" Nat said. Bucky's response was something like, "Right. Hawkeye the amazing armadillo man." The (equally) amazing [not!! the blue](https://not-the-blue.tumblr.com) read that bit and....
> 
> I've never seen anything more perfect in my whole life. *dies happy*
> 
> And with that...this is really over. There's a bonus chapter coming, but I'm going to post that separate, as it's not actually necessary to the story. And though I'm not guaranteeing anything, I'm almost certainly going to be revisiting this 'verse again, because I've completely fallen in love with winged!Clint. And also smitten, (sometimes) bossy Bucky. 😉
> 
> Thank you to all you readers and commenters, you just make my day!
> 
> Arson, I hope this makes you smile. I had so much fun writing for you!!
> 
> Pherryt, what can I say, there wouldn't even be an ending without you. (hahahaha) Seriously, though, thanks for talking me through my crazy moments and for finding my mistakes. You're the best!!
> 
> Lira


End file.
